


You Are Now Entering Gate #12

by pinkbagels



Category: Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: #ItsStillBeautiful, After the Fall, Alpha Will, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Crack, But plot, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Crack, Hannibal and Will can't seem to stay away from dead bodies, M/M, Omega Hannibal, Soo much crazy crack, There's plot, Weird Biology, Will and Hannibal discover they are parents, crack plot, domestic weirdness, everything is freaky, it's a romcom okay?, rotten teenagers, they don't know where they are, this fic is so much crack it's snowing, wonky physics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-08 08:08:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 70,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7749937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkbagels/pseuds/pinkbagels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>#Itsstillbeautiful</p><p>After the fall, teacups are reformed and Hannibal gets what he wants...Maybe...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Paragon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [victorine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/victorine/gifts), [TigerPrawn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TigerPrawn/gifts), [13empress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/13empress/gifts), [stone_cold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stone_cold/gifts), [aurorafloyd (helenmaldon)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/helenmaldon/gifts), [Magical_Destiny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magical_Destiny/gifts), [Sial_Silverleaf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sial_Silverleaf/gifts), [Angel5](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angel5/gifts), [fizumono](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fizumono/gifts), [LoadingWorldDominationPlan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoadingWorldDominationPlan/gifts), [sammie_s43073](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammie_s43073/gifts), [graham_cracker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/graham_cracker/gifts), [treebarkings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/treebarkings/gifts), [hanniwho](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanniwho/gifts), [SpoiledChild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpoiledChild/gifts), [plan_d_to_i](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plan_d_to_i/gifts), [xmencomicsmarvel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xmencomicsmarvel/gifts), [Llewcie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llewcie/gifts), [RoseCal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseCal/gifts), [crazykuroneko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazykuroneko/gifts), [cucumber_of_doom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cucumber_of_doom/gifts).



> A complete and utter crack!fic set in the Omegaverse though our fellas don't know that yet. The naughty bits aren't the only weirdness that abounds. Fate in whatever universe they find themselves in has always kept them together--though it admittedly takes oddly different shapes.
> 
> This fic is very much inspired by both [Off The Opal Coast](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6454786/chapters/14772178) by @arabella and [Through A Glass](http://archiveofourown.org/works/903215/chapters/1746818) by @amare Both of these should be read, bookmarked, worshiped, they are fantastic and really delve much deeper into the fish out of water story trope much better than this sorry offering does!
> 
> Written for the #ItsStillBeautiful challenge.
> 
> Warnings for mention of weed, irresponsible use of alcohol and crowds.

 

YOU ARE NOW ENTERING GATE #12  
chapter one

Bathed in blood, they fell.

Will could feel the tug of the ocean beneath them as it swelled and crashed against the rocks, the time it took for them to hit it long enough for his mind to sift through every event he'd experienced in his life. There were far too many moments full of a searing ache he'd desired for the man tangled in his arms. Now, this was how it was to end, in the obscurity of a dark ocean current that rolled over them and baptized them into its relentless, violent emptiness. He could feel Hannibal's body shift and turn, and though it stung he would not deny Hannibal his prize. With his cheek torn and burning, he parted his lips as Hannibal held him ever closer and captured his mouth in hungry, fatal longing.

And Hannibal was definitely feeling the love, as Will was, hard against his thigh as they fell. He wasn't really into that, didn't have a problem with it 'per se', just that he preferred certain human bits over other human bits, and while Hannibal wasn't that fussy about what gave him pleasure between the sheets, Will Graham was all about the angsting over it, and for fuck's sake he's slipping him the tongue now and if that isn't just typical of that homicidal bastard.

Will tightened his grip. Whatever, they were dead, so who cares?

Of course, the landing was significantly different from what Will had imagined it would be. Obvious understanding of physics aside, he was sure that being torn into a billion pieces by the sharp rocks jutting out of an Atlantic ocean weren't supposed to feel like softened leather. In fact, softness was the overall sensation that pervaded every second of this whole dying thing, especially with the way the Atlantic air suddenly dried up into a soft, muted shade of firelight that he could see flickering in the corner of his eye. Hannibal's blood soaked cotton shirt was now silky and soft and warm under his palms and Will curiously searched it, hands clasped hard around bunches of loose fabric that smelled like an ocean breeze. Or rather, Downy fabric softener ocean breeze. And what was with these lips that weren't crusty with chunks of human meat and hungrily searching through the gore for Will? Right now they were ever so soft and almost pleading and, dammit, even his body as he straddled Will's lap was softer, Will's grip firm and searching on the man's pliant waist. He *tasted* soft, how was that even possible? Kind of sweet, reminiscent of overripe peaches.

He continued to kiss him, liking the taste, wondering just how long was this damned drop anyway, and why was his sliced cheek no longer aching, or anything else on him save what was in his pants, for that matter. He wasn't really anticipating going for it mid-air like this, but damn, he was going to break a zipper if he didn't find a way to make it happen and soon.

Hannibal tried to pull away, but oh no, that bastard got what he wanted, too late to have second thoughts on this particular lottery win. Will shifted and Hannibal sighed into his mouth, the scent of something intensely sexual wafting up from him and making Will dizzy enough to pause. Maybe trying out some other bits wouldn't be so weird after all, he was pretty much a pro at this whole kissing thing, and Hannibal seemed to like it just as much, so...

"Will."

Hannibal, dishevelled and wrecked but not at all in the way he was anticipating, stared down at him from where he was perched on Will's lap, his hands braced on Will's shoulders. Why was he stopping? This was a sin of omission Will was not going to allow, and in moments Will's hands were busily mussing up his silken coif, tugging the locks in tight circles around his fingers as he forced Hannibal down for another kiss.

"Oh my God, how is it possible you taste this good?"

"Will. Something is very wrong."

They both paused and took a good look at where they were, exactly, and it wasn't quite so much the darkness of endless torment into Hell as their bones and bodies were bloodily rendered by the rolling dirge of the ocean as a quiet little office with a fireplace and a rather familiar leather chair. Which Hannibal and Will were currently sharing. It was not *that* office, which Will was thankful for, not that inexplicably massive space that was more library and art studio than a place fashioned on the influential whims of Sigmund Freud. This office was a quarter of that size, and dark and equally lined with some familiar books from floor to ceiling, with the usual dark furnishings and a large, oak desk that imposed itself in the small space. A second, abandoned leather chair was posed in front of the tiny fireplace that barely lit the otherwise dark room.

"We were falling off a cliff," Will reminded him.

Hannibal was still straddled on his lap, hands still perched on his shoulders, and there was no question, exactly, as to what was set to happen until this sudden realization of their change in venue showed up. Will still had a firm but genuinely erotic grip on Hannibal's waist. Was he seriously wearing a silk purple shirt right now? And a black tie and black suit, of an equally silky sheen? A bit understated for a peacock like Hannibal, and since he had a good view and could get a nice close up of what was directly in his line of vision, he could see the collar of Hannibal's shirt was slightly gap-stitched and, to make matters worse, there were several little threads left orphaned along the back. Curious, Will slid his hand up and over the fabric, its tactile feel beneath his palm one of mass manufacturing, the threads low count and prone to be on sale.

Never!

"What's going on?"

"I don't know, Will." He shifted on Will's lap to get a better look at their surroundings, and really, it was such a treat to see that utterly *perplexed* look on his face! He'd never seen that particular look before, and it amused Will a great deal, hell, seeing Hannibal genuinely stumped was making him harder if that was possible, and seriously, what the hell....

He was hard as a fucking rock right now, and the lack of release was giving him blue balls and...They weren't dying at all, they were safe and were they just--Oh my God, were they *cuddling*? Just what the hell??

"We're in an office," Hannibal said. "Similar to my one in Baltimore but with some obviously very different elements."

"I've already noticed," Will said, raising a brow. "Where is the cliff face?" Will's hands were still roving over Hannibal's waist, his body very slow to get the hint that this was not supposed to be a pleasant little erotic tumble into the ocean's maw. "Where is death, Hannibal? What the hell is going on?" He took in Hannibal's nervous stance over him, the way he looked over his shoulder and around him as though unable to compute it properly and it was then that everything that was happening hit Will with the full force of a blow. "Oh my God...We were about to have sex!"

"Will..."

"This wasn't the arrangement! We were going over a cliff to *die*! We aren't supposed to be alive!"

Oh great, here we go again, Will thought, and he figured since he *could* think he must somehow stupidly still be alive, and yet all that led up to their final battle together, beautiful and glorious as it was, was now forced into that unpleasant realm of hallucination and Will was doubting his sanity. As per usual. He sank in the seat and stared up at Hannibal, incredulous, his hands sinking over the arms of the chair and hanging at its sides, helplessly limp.

"Did you give me encephalitis again?"

"No, Will."

"Are you sure? Or magic mushrooms in the wine, or maybe even a good hit of LSD. Did we even kill the Red Dragon together? That was such a defining moment for our relationship, and if you fucked me over again by making me think we did when we didn't and it's my subconscious acting like your little bitch, so help me..."

The threat went unfinished. There was a loud knock on the office door and Hannibal remained frozen in Will's lap. Will sighed and shifted, placing his hands on Hannibal's waist and easing him to standing as he did likewise. He noticed he was wearing a t-shirt and a pair of rugged jeans that he knew he didn't own, but both were comfortable if not a little out of character for him. He frowned as he inspected it, the t-shirt had a picture of a boom box on it with the words 'Satan's Muzak' plastered across it in neon yellow. He gave it a cursory sniff and noticed it had the same scent as Hannibal's shirt, a weirdly domestic chemical perfume. He'd already identified it as Downy's 'ocean breeze', but dammit, there was something else beneath it, and it was Hannibal's own scent buried in the fibres, so distinctive to Will it was as if he was taking a mental picture of the smell. Which was an odd skill to have, considering it was Hannibal who was the olfactory king.

He found he liked sniffing his shirt where Hannibal had been pressed against it, and there was something else very distinctive lurking in that scent, his body attuned to it with sharp, sensual need. He had to fight the urge to slide up against the back of Hannibal right now and breathe him in, the taste of his skin no doubt as incredible as his mouth.

Will felt inexplicably restless. Punchy. The animal section of his mind wanted to toss Hannibal to the floor and tear him apart, though in what capacity Will wasn't entirely sure. Hannibal's panting mouth was all he could focus on. He tried to shake his head of the image, but it wouldn't clear.

Hannibal placed himself into a semblance of decorum, smoothing down the wrinkles in his suit and affixing his dishevelled hair back into its usual geometric precision. He braced his shoulders and pushed them back as he swung open the door, and gave whoever was on the other side a bland, dull smile that did not meet his black gaze.

A bleached blonde woman in her thirties wearing a leather jacket, halter top and skin tight jeans with high heels was on the other side and while she looked like she might be a streetwalker, the expensive Gucci bag she sported said otherwise. "I've been calling you guys for over an hour. We have to pick up Beverly along the way, she's the one with all the green. I nearly forgot your damned tickets, can you believe that? I know, right, it's a wonder I have my head on straight. Jesus, Hannibal, you are not wearing a fucking suit to this concert, are you? Seriously? You are hopeless, that's all I can say. And no, don't even think it, don't even say it, I know I look like a Blondie wannabe from 1984, but sometimes you have to look the part of a concert organizer and not a tax collector, got it?" Her voice had a weirdly familiar cadence, the accent similar to Hannibal's. Will could immediately determine there were several traits already in evidence, that this was a relative of the Lecter clan. She had the same sharp features, for one, and though she was thin her arms were fairly muscular. A cousin? "It's going to be awesome, all ten thousand tickets sold out in half an hour, can you believe that? Bitch, we got floors! And here you are in your fucking death suit. Oh my God, I tell you to dress down and this is what you do. Well, it's too late to change now, let's just go, Beverly is waiting."

Beverly?

Will glared at Hannibal, who refused to give his hidden enquiry any emotion. Beverly was long dead and the person who made her that way was standing right in front of him, only a hint of apology lurking in his aura. What did this mean, were they dead, then? Was that elusive afterlife not a myth after all, and they were plunged headlong into the infinite mystery that Hannibal himself had denied existed?

"You're driving, by the way, and I don't want to hear any bitching about it. The rest of us are getting smashed, right Will?"

Will opened and closed his mouth, unable to answer. Frankly, getting smashed right now sounded like a great idea.

"Yes, of course," Hannibal said, playing along and forcing Will to do so as well. Considering they didn't know what was happening, perhaps this version of playacting was best. Will found himself pouring his being into his own brand of person suit, one he had cultivated during his time in the asylum. He gave the woman in their midst a warm smile that she instantly responded in kind to, enough to give him a punch in the shoulder that hurt more than it should have and a squeeze of a hug that had such an iron grip it left him flinching.

"I'm afraid I will need instructions on how to get there," Hannibal said, and the woman's smile faltered.

"I work at the damned Opera House! You park there all the time when we booze up at the pub across the street!" She laughed coarsely at Hannibal's perceived forgetfulness, though Will didn't miss the relief that washed over Hannibal over a seemingly familiar landmark. "Nuts, like I'm the one always being told she's forgetful and you get dementia on where we all go for drinks every Friday!" She made a dour face that was supposed to be an imitation of a Hannibal neither of them knew. "Mischa, you forgot to feed the cat. Mischa, you forgot to lock the door. Mischa, you forgot to pay for the coffins. Mischa, you forgot where you put the bodies. Blah, blah, you are such a nag."

Mischa? Hannibal's sister?

Will didn't miss the sudden shock that hit Hannibal at this, the stiff posture and wafts of cold persona that he used as a protective ruse when threatened. He gave her an uneasy smile that she interpreted as shy, but there was an underlying anger beneath it. "It's been a while since I've seen you," Hannibal carefully said.

"What are you talking about, I saw you this morning. Wow, you really do get into a state this time of the month." She began rummaging in her purse, her heels clacking as she marched out of the office and into the front foyer that led to a large set of Victorian oak doors that were highly reminiscent of Hannibal's home. In fact, as Will left the office to follow her, her heels echoing in steady clacks across the marble flooring, he had to concede that yes, this was indeed Hannibal's house, but it was transformed, not as an abode for the king of earthly delights as it had been but as a combination of work and home. He couldn't quite figure out what that work was, exactly, but there was a pervasive feeling of shadows that Will couldn't bring into light, and though he didn't know how he knew this, it was very clear to that empathic inner instinct in him that Hannibal was not a psychiatrist. Hannibal followed closely behind Will, taking in his surroundings with cautious wonder. Will paused, and dared to whisper in Hannibal's ear: "What is this place?"

"It seems it's my home, but it isn't. That monstrous arrangement of flowers and those large double doors under the stairs leading to the centre of the house, they weren't here before. The property seems larger, as though there are additions. But there are distinctive markers that suggest this is, in fact, my home, but it is completely rearranged. This is a highly curious situation we have found ourselves in, Will, one that has no measurable reasoning that I can attest to for us being here. Play along, that is my best advice, whatever journey this is it seems we are meant to have it together."

"We're not in Kansas anymore," Will whispered back. He nodded ahead at Mischa who was now cursing as she rummaged through her large purse once again. "Do you think she's the good witch or the bad witch?"

"Good, of course. Mischa could be nothing else."

"Okay, the concert is starting in an hour, and, fuck, thank God, I thought I forgot it." She pulled out her cell phone and quickly dialled, giving Hannibal and Will a wide grin as she did so. "Beverly! Did you get it? Yes! You are a lifesaver, and yes, I got the mickey of whiskey hidden in the liner of my leather jacket, even if they pat me down they won't find it. Of course you're coming to the after party! Hannibal is the designated driver, of course, you know he won't have fun like we do." She waved at them both to hurry up as she stomped on her impossible heels out the front door, a shudder of snow assailing her as opened it. They followed her, steps in sync, a congruity that Will couldn't help but find amusing.

"At least the Bentley is still here," Will said, nodding at its austere outline in the wintry gloom.

"I am merely relieved we are going to a venue that I have some familiarity with. A good opera is a gift I have not had the occasion to enjoy for quite some time, though from the casual attire expected I have to wonder if it is some art house interpretation. No matter, it is a form of high culture that I am sure we will enjoy."

Will's face twisted into misery. "I hate the opera."

Hannibal smiled patiently at this, and entwined his arm in the crook of Will's elbow, leaning just that little bit too close to him and sending another strange, erotic jolt through Will's gut that he wasn't able to readily explain away. "My only hope is that they do not fall into cliche and force us to endure Carmen. Ten thousand people rioting against its poor production can be a serious problem. Surely she exaggerates, the Opera House cannot hold that amount."

"Hannibal." Will paused as he watched Mischa struggle with the passenger door of the Bentley, her heels digging into the snow and slipping. Eventually, she cursed loudly and tore her heels off, bared stockinged feet immersed in ice as she opened the door and poured herself into the back seat in a messy pile of blonde and denim. "That is your sister."

Hannibal was quiet a long moment as he looked on the Bentley, his posture stiff. "I am not ready to confront the implications of this quite yet. It seems there will many changes, dear Will. Let us watch, as one does a flower opening into the joy of the sun, as time recedes and claws back that which has been taken. I was correct in my assumptions, Will. We have gone so far ahead that all shall now reverb back upon us, and time has reversed itself. The teacup has been recollected and is whole. I should not feel shock that my theories have proved correct, and yet...This is overwhelming even to me, Will. We have no compass, no map from which to understand our place. Navigation will be tricky." He turned to Will, giving him a warm, genuinely happy grin and that weird feeling erupted throughout Will's groin again. He grimaced and near growled in an effort to quell it. "How wonderful it is to have you here, with me, at the universe's rejoining. I am thrilled beyond measure, Will. All that is broken has been repaired."

Will wasn't sure what to believe, there was something in Hannibal's calculations that felt off, but as he was standing here very much alive and not rolling along the bottom of an ocean where his torn body was feeding hungry lobsters, he wasn't going to argue the finer points of physics.

He turned his sights on Hannibal, who was poised at the top of his front steps, staring into the Bentley with such naked emotion, his eyes black with unshed tears, and Will couldn't help himself. He rested a hand on the small of Hannibal's back, in a sincere gesture of affection.

"Time to party, I guess," Will said.

~*~

Beverly was waiting for them on a street corner not far from the Baltimore stadium which was now known as the 'Opera House' due to the amount of bands that played there throughout the year. Hannibal had been seriously admonished by Mischa when he took what she knew to be a wrong turn and it was only when he punched in the address into the GPS under the ruse of getting the best route that they made it on time. Beverly was wearing a similar ensemble to Mischa, only with a sparkling gold jacket instead of a leather one, and boots with heels that were easily an inch higher. While there were genuine similarities to the personality he had met and worked with in that other, quickly fading life before the fall, she was much happier here and less ambitious, the wild side to her nature allowed to roam free. And she was certainly feral, Will quickly gleaned, especially with the way she was already drunk and waving a mickey of whiskey in Mischa's face, her purse practically overflowing with weed, the skunk scent of it nearly knocking Will out.

"I rolled some fatties for you Will!" Beverly shoved her fingertips deep into his shoulder, bruising him. He took them from her reluctantly, he'd never been one to smoke it, long preferring alcohol to dull his senses. "I'd give some to you, too, Hanni, but you're our designated driver, so sucks to be you. Remember the last time? Oh my God, you were so wasted, and you had that funeral the next day. Nobody could tell which one was the corpse!" She leaned into the front seat, heedless of a seatbelt, her elbows perched between them. "You're pretty close, hunh? I bet you guys got knotted up first, right? You sure you're going to be okay tonight, Hanni, I mean, you're on a heat holiday and all, cutting it kind of close, right? Mischa told me you tried to back out, but there's no way you can miss this, honest to God, I don't care if someone choked the life out of me and ripped out my kidneys an hour ahead, I'm not missing this!"

Will loudly coughed at this, but Hannibal seemed unperturbed. Will noted that he did, however, flinch every time Beverly called him 'Hanni'.

"Will's lucky he's got you, most Omegas would be curled up in bed right now, refusing to do a thing. When are you bringing that dog in for her shots? You're like a month behind in her rabies, and I know she can't move much these days but you still like taking her to your cottage in Virginia and they had some outbreaks there recently."

"Our dog," Will said, giving Hannibal a raised brow, and liking that the man didn't respond readily to this. "Interesting."

"I miss Samson's big, sloppy face. I know you guys are busy but you could at least bring him around the clinic for a visit once in a while. I love the big, goofy ones."

Beverly, Will quickly learned as she prattled on, was a veterinarian in this universe, and he had only one dog which was nearing the end of its natural life, which had been fraught with endless health problems. A slobbering Rottweiller with an asthmatic condition and prone to stomach ailments, the ailing canine was now ten years old. They had a much older cat that Hannibal had brought into their relationship, who Beverly clearly had no love for. She was a vicious creature, Beverly hinted, one that scratched and bit at every visit and would only allow Hannibal to pick her up. According to Beverly the cat bullied the dog relentlessly, and Will had brought the aging pooch to her several times after the cat had lacerated his ear.

"As for that cat, I keep telling you it's time to let her meet her maker, she's a misery. Sixteen years old and still pure evil. I know you're all sentimental about the rotten thing, Hanni, but I'm an animal lover and I usually adore all kinds of claws and teeth, but that little tabby cunt can get drop kicked into Hades for all I care. I had to get stitches in my arm the last time you brought her in, Hanni--*Stitches*!"

She showed him the still red scar on her forearm, which Hannibal glanced at in passing. "Clearly she is still feisty enough to defend herself, proof of a definite will to live."

"Typical Hanni, giving that rotten cat's bad behaviour excuses. You are a such a marshmallow."

Will choked on this observation, despite Hannibal giving him a warning glare. Beverly sank back into the passenger seat with Mischa, who was busy on the phone discussing last minute details with her staff at the concert venue. Mischa, Will discovered, was a PR representative for the Opera House and was responsible for booking bands and events for the large stadium, which was still currently undergoing renovations. She walked a tightrope between administrative genius and rock star, and it was hard to see where she was on that balancing act at any given moment, the lines so blurred she was a character of note herself.

"Park in the VIP section, it's in the part closest to the boardwalk. Security wanted the band to have back door access, but I still think the one off to the side on the right was better, the doors are bigger and it would have been easier to get in their equipment. I hope these damned renos are done soon, it's bad enough we have heating costs that are barely making this break even. I already got the parking stickers, it's good until six tomorrow morning, but I know you won't be staying that long. I'm going to have to dip in and have a few last minute chats with my people, make sure they aren't using the razor blade idea in the cannon, I kept telling those idiots you can't shoot sharp projectiles into a crowd, but do they listen?" She gave her brother a worried glare. "Hannibal, you going to be okay? Shit, I don't know, you look all clammy. I got pills if you want them, and I'm sure someone in there has got something that's never going to be an over the counter prescription, if you get my meaning, and of course, there's weed..."

"I don't need anything, Mischa," Hannibal tersely replied.

"Well, okay, but you're looking so pale." She punched Will's already bruised shoulder and between her and Beverly he was getting amicably battered. "Keep an eye on your husband tonight, don't worry about Beverly and I if you have to take him home."  She bit her bottom lip, her sharp eyes narrowing on her older brother.  "I hope this is just heat and not about that impending release date.  They aren't going to let him out, no judge in their right mind would allow that, so don't worry about it."

"I am perfectly fine, Mischa," Hannibal said, though there was a small lilt of strain in his voice that gave Will pause.

Mischa noticed it immediately and tutted at her older brother. "You should have took a heat suppressant like I told you to. There's a full bottle right there in the downstairs bathroom."

Beverly rolled her eyes. "Those things are placebos, none of them work. I have tampons, we all know those can help take the edge off, at least. Just let me know if you need one."

Hannibal's gloved grip on the steering wheel tightened and his pallor increased. Will felt a sick well in the pit of his stomach, and his shock and horror must have shown because Beverly laughed at his stricken expression, her bottom lip chewed in teasing mirth. "Like you've never heard of that before. As if, Will, you've been married for how long?"

"It's just n-not something you outright talk about in front of a guy," Will stammered, and this seemed to be the right answer.

Beverly collapsed in her seat and sighed at this. Mischa was busy putting the mickey of whiskey into the lining of her leather coat, as per their plan, and was thankfully not part of the conversation. He had no clue what they were referencing but there was a definitely uncomfortable sexual component to it that his empathy instantly alighted on, making his confusion all the more evident.

"You Alphas are all the same," Beverly said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "You only pay attention to the parts of heat that interest you and just block out the reality of all the messy bits."

Mischa's head shot up as they entered the parking lot on the far side of the stadium, which was already packed with people. "Park over there!"

Beverly let out a squeal of delight and giggled in excitement. "This night is going to be *sick*! Come on, come on, hurry up and park!"

Hannibal smoothly complied, his silence speaking entire essays that neither of the women in the car could hear, but Will could feel every intonation, every small outrage fluttering with purpose in Hannibal's breast. He was curious, that was obvious--Hannibal was always curious as to what was about to happen should he manipulate this or that moment--but the rub right now was that he had no foundation from which to spring and the only reality he could morph at present was a bland pretending of knowing what was going on around him.

"Marriage," Hannibal said, smiling with a forced cheer that was near grotesque on his otherwise stern visage, looking more a grimace than joy. He brought the large car into a cramped parking space and, as was his habit, expertly placed it with razor sharp precision between the yellow lines. "The years have clearly been good to us," Hannibal continued, talking to no one in particular. "A union of two souls combined into one. I believe that is the perception and expectation, and I am happy to see that Will and I have encapsulated both."

Beverly and Mischa paused at this giving each other confused looks before disintegrating into derisive laughter. "Whatever you say, big brother," Mischa said, slapping her large hand on Hannibal's shoulder and snorting with ugly mirth. "Don't know why you think you have to butter him up to get laid. Eighteen years, and you still think you have to earn it, you're adorable."

She dug into her purse and pulled out the tickets which she handed to Beverly, who was already smoking a doobie and handing the skunky smelling blunt to Will. He took it reluctantly, and smoked it only when she insisted, his lungs protesting the burning, bitter effort. His eyes were watering, but he coughed and took a second puff before handing it back.

"The best shit always makes you choke," Beverly said, grinning widely at him, and while he had a bit of a buzz already brewing, he couldn't say it was anything near as spectacular as cutting a human down in cold blood with a fellow killer and bathing in said juices.

He gave Hannibal a wan smile. "So...Honey. I guess it's showtime."

"I imagine so," Hannibal tersely replied. "I do hope my expectations are not as low as I anticipate them to be."

"Just because you are stuck being the designated driver does not give you license to be a condescending bitch," Mischa said to him. She slid out of the car, with Beverly following suit, their efforts staggered and already suspiciously uneven. "Meet you in the front row. Enjoy! This thing is paying my mortgage for the rest of the year!"

~*~

Well, no, it wasn't exactly Carmen.

Or opera.

And really, Hannibal didn't have to stand there so miserable and out of place, refusing to find any sort of redemptive quality in the heaving crowds that pressed at his back and nearly crushed his ribs against the stage. One typical concert goer body slammed him hard and stepped on Hannibal's foot, hard enough to earn a very neatly placed elbow at his throat that sent him flying back into the melee behind him. Hannibal continued to stand in his appointed spot, easing out the wrinkles in what was, in all honesty, a cheap suit, and remained looking as stern as a narc.

Will sighed as he stared at him, wishing his fellow killer could just relax for once and not be constantly internally playing the game of daring and consequence and placing bets on which scenario was most likely to play out. Will, for his part, was having a fucking fantastic time. Mischa kept the booze flowing with secretive sips of the mickey of whiskey from her sleeve and Beverly was in charge of the little nubs of apple pie, aka pot, she kept hidden behind the collar of her jean jacket and pretended to kiss Will when it was actually a puff, puff, pass when the security detail wasn't looking.

Sold out show! And they had *floors*!

No, it wasn't opera. It wasn't Carmen. It was as far and wide from classical in the Hannibal sense as one could get, but Will knew all the words to all the songs and damn if he didn't get transported all the way back to his angry late teen years when he'd spend days bunkered in his filthy room, blasting 'Sober'.

"Mother Mary, won't you fucking whisper!" He bopped his head and leaned laughing into Beverly, body thumping with the crowd, and its unholy din.

Floors! For TOOL!

Of course, Hannibal had never gotten to know this portion of Will Graham, this wild and unfettered little piece of history that his anger rode on, shaped in obscure lyrics and psychoanalytical mysticism, all delivered in a very loud, screaming package. He was too busy seeking out his murderous tendencies and moulding his mind into agreement with his monstrous world view--Efforts which could have been avoided if he'd just investigated Will's dusty CD collection in the glove compartment of his car. A person' choice in music said volumes about them, it was no small thing that killer David Berkowitz, aka 'The Son Of Sam', was fond of The Partridge Family.

For Will it was all about the anger and dissonance, and frankly, TOOL was kind of last on his list of preferred bands. He was an indie junkie, the ones he had LPs of stacked in the attic of his Virginia home were more obscure punk bands from the late eighties, full of discordant screaming, heavy guitar and the occasional sound of cracked teeth and razor blades slicing skin. It was a shame The Babykillers only ever put out an imprint of a hundred LPs, they were exactly the kind of band he followed with religious relish.

TOOL were okay, far too much by way of talent and melody for his liking, and from the austere look of them they were not the angry pessimistic self destructive monsters he much preferred. But still, Will knew all the songs, and his heart thrummed in tune with the massive crowd behind him, a wolf amongst the sheep who was steadily growing drunk on the euphoria of others.

"Will..."

Fuck yeah! Forty-six and two! Was that a new guitar riff? It sounded incredible!

"Will, please..."

Beverly stepped back and bid Will to stand in her place behind Hannibal, and she was shouting something to him but he couldn't hear her over the din, and it was all so fantastic, so incredible the way the crowd was all lit up, and he was floating amongst them, his body sweating, his muscles tensed and released, the endorphins of the crowd a dizzying, overpowering high...

"Will, I don't feel well."

Will felt a nag of annoyance hit his gut at this, because of *course* Hannibal would need to ruin this for him, he would need to interfere and present some ridiculous excuse to get him to stop enjoying himself for once. Far be it for Will Graham to have anything for his own pleasure! He turned on Hannibal with an angry scowl, only for it to falter and then gradually disappear as he saw that the man was, without question, in genuine distress.

Hannibal was starkly pale, his face a pasty hue that Will had never before witnessed and that filled him with alarm. He half wondered if their glorious dream had finally ended and there they were, crushed against the rocks and this was Hannibal's death before him as he sank to the bottom of the Atlantic with him. But Hannibal was not cold to the touch as Will inspected his brow with a press of his palm against it, he was burning red hot, enough to scorch. His skin left behind a thin sheen of very sweet smelling sweat on Will's fingers and though he couldn't figure out why, at that moment all he could think about was getting Hannibal home, getting him somewhere *safe*.

He turned to Mischa, but she waved him off, a half smile given to him and no concern at all directed at her older brother. "Take him home!" Mischa shouted. "Beverly and I are sticking around for the after party anyway! We'll get a taxi!"

She moved her mouth, and she might have said more, but Will couldn't hear her. A security guard suddenly appeared at Hannibal's elbow, clearly he was brought over to help them leave. A secreted door at the left side of the stage ushered them out and down a long corridor that ended outside of the auditorium and into the parking lot. Will could see the Bentley in the distance, a small layer of snow covering it.  
  
The security guard was an African American man of slender build, wearing a tight, bright blue t-shirt with the white words 'Security' blazoned across it. He nodded at Hannibal, who was leaning on Will, his complaints of dizziness and nausea now a near constant refrain. "Probably shouldn't have cut it this close if it was coming up," the security guard gently admonished Will, who didn't have a clue what the guy meant, no matter how much empathy he tried to glean from the various facets of information he'd gathered. 'Heat suppressants' Mischa had said, and then Beverly had cut in about tampons which was weird, and what did it all mean?

What the hell was 'heat'?

 _'They would never release him..'_ Mischa had said.  Who did she mean?

"Hannibal?" Concerned, Will focused on the man who was now shivering in front of him. He caged Hannibal's face in his palms, feeling the inexplicable fever coursing through him. He felt a sudden urge to pet him, his hands moving of their own accord, smoothing down his hair and melting the tiny flecks of snow that dared to cover it. Will felt dizzy himself, but it was due to alcohol and weed, and maybe a little bit of that flavour that was gently wafting from Hannibal's partially open lips, so sweet and delectable that Will couldn't do it, his willpower was no longer his own, and he captured Hannibal's breath, stealing it as he placed tender kisses on that surprised, and yet relieved, soft mouth.

"You're going to have to drive," Will reminded him when he broke free, and Hannibal nodded into the palms still framing his face, the dreamlike quality of the evening not lost on Will alone, it seemed. Will's hands slid away from his face and one clasped onto Hannibal's as he led him to the Bentley, keys already in Hannibal's hand. The walk seemed to take forever.

Were they still falling over that craggy cliff? They were witnesses to the dead, that was a certainty, they had Beverly and Mischa, two long buried corpses who had now arisen and were full of life in their midst. It didn't seem fair to be given this when all was set to dissipate, their conjoined illusions ending in darkness.

Hannibal turned on the Bentley with a push of the button on his key. The engine purred into life, the lights of the large car illuminating the parking lot.

Will frowned as he glanced back at the security guard who was watching to make sure they left safely. The man gave him a friendly wave, which Will returned with a wave back. Very strange, he had no recollection of ever seeing that man before, and Will never forgot people, especially not their faces. In dreams, strangers were never random, they were faces seen and recorded by the subconscious, brought out in somnolence. There were monsters and imagery that was unusual and surreal in his imaginings, but never strangers within them, never this kind of detailed, every day inanity. Where were the monsters and the slick black images of water he would have expected? Where was his churning abyss of blood?

Then there was Hannibal himself, strangely compliant as he got into the car and slid into the driver's seat, Will quickly accompanying him in the passenger role beside him. He pet the back of Hannibal's neck in long strokes and what the hell, his lithe, never to be rattled monster purred into the touch, a dreamy look in his gaze that had nothing at all to do with impending death.

"Will, I am feeling very strange."

"We must be dying," Will said, hoping that Hannibal agreed.

Hannibal licked his lips and frowned slightly at this. He pulled the car out of park and began to drive it off the lot. "No, William, I don't believe that to be true at all. This car is real beneath me, as are my hands upon the steering wheel. Your touch...Dear Will, you are mesmerizing me. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to stop, for though it is exceptionally pleasant it's making me feel calm enough to sleep."

Will trailed his hand away, pausing his fingers at Hannibal's lips and taking small delight in how the man couldn't resist closing those maroon eyes and kissing their tips. "Our relationship is taking on some very romantic elements, Will. Lust has its place for us, it seems."

Something feral and eager unsprung itself from within Will Graham as he looked on Hannibal, and it was with no small amount of surprise that he heard a darker intonation in his voice, which was far gruffer than he'd intended.

"Just get us home," he said.

 

 


	2. Lusterware

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal and Will investigate their new surroundings. I think we might be able to guess why this version of Hannibal liked flowers so much...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some frank alien sex talk and yes, there's PLOT in this! PLOTTY PLOT PLOT in my CRACK! Muahaahaaaa!!!

 

 

 

 

YOU ARE NOW ENTERING GATE #12  
chapter two

There are certain finalities that Dr. Hannibal Lecter knows to be true. Will Graham, the man he loves, is as unpredictable as the influence of a fractal. He is a man of infinite original, many sided geometries that circumspect the nature of the universe and tile his imprint upon it. This is a surety that Hannibal delightfully counts on and it was with an aria of blissful longing in his heart that he allowed himself to be pulled by the man's embrace over the edge of that fateful cliff towards the hungry waters below. Fate was set to determine the rest. As all great tragedies, theirs was to be especially poetic. Well done, Will.

The other finality was the disappointing understanding that death brings with it a firm resolution. There were to be no further chapters in the newly born life of Will and Hannibal Lecter, there was to only be regurgitation of the past, which would eventually become sad leavings on the back pages of Tattle Crime. They would fade into gory footnotes staining the history of Earth. Such a shame. He would have at least preferred a last meal.

But what the cannibal and killer and overall monster Dr. Hannibal Lecter did not put into his computations of this observation of reality is that what we perceive and understand as *being* is as malleable as Francis Dolarhyde himself had been, and with far more radical formations than even Will's unpredictable nature could account for. They were, inexplicably, bereft of death. How this came about Hannibal could only theorize, and yet, even his favoured teacup scenario did not entirely hold weight here, the little shards not only still falling apart, but continuing to break into smaller and smaller pieces until nothing at all was left of it. To reverse time would mean going back to an exact moment he recognized, to be within a familiar place with a hopefully different result. But this was not the case here, for this was still the present, and while the teacup seemed to be put back together, it was a mishmash of several other such broken shards of ceramic, all of different dates and manufacturers, glued back together unevenly and rendered into a patchwork whose pattern was impossible to interpret.

"You have a dancing skeleton mug."

Will plunked it in front of him as they inspected their now significantly smaller kitchen. The black mug with glow in the dark skeletons was the sort of gift a family member would give, and from what he'd gleaned of her personality, it was no doubt a present from his now not dead sister, Mischa.

Just the thought of her sent a flutter of panic throughout Hannibal's being and he pushed the offending mug and alien feeling away and reached instead for the calming glass of, admittedly, far cheaper wine than he was used to enjoying. This still did not feel like a place where they belonged, the very air seeming to goad them with an expectation of initiation. He'd felt a nagging suspense as they'd journeyed up the wide driveway to the front of their large, sprawling home. The grounds of their home were shrouded in darkness as they pulled up in the Bentley and he was feeling too unwell to properly inspect the large sign on his front lawn, indicative that this was his both his home and his business. A thick layer of snow covered it like a white shroud.

He was still unwell. The queasiness was more under control than it had been at that terrible concert, but it was still lurking in his gut, along with a feeling of restless neediness that he simply couldn't shake. He wanted to go to bed, specifically he wanted to go to bed with *Will*. The sexual component of such a desire was not at all important, what he truly wanted was to feel Will's arms on him again and this time in languid ease, so they could properly enjoy the afterglow of their mutual kill, which was sadly becoming muted as the evening wore on. Hannibal felt as though they had been robbed of this intimacy after the fall over those monstrous cliffs, and though it should have been enough to just be in his dear Will's proximity, for many reasons his physical body was aching for much, much more.

He couldn't help but feel distracted as Will barely got the key in the front door before he was insisting they investigate their new, yet old, surroundings, his hands picking up bits and pieces of a life that Hannibal had no understanding of. A few quick strides to the right of the mysterious central doors and they were in that section of the house he'd favoured most. He was instantly disappointed. The kitchen was far too small for his liking, though it was clear from the contents of his fridge that he was still an avid cook, though Will's influence was painfully evident. Pop tarts in the cupboard next to the oven. Bags of half opened potato chips of some vile generic brand held together with large clips. Canned soups and boxes of macaroni and cheese.

One word properly described it: Pedestrian.

He no longer had his lovely indoor herb garden and the dining room was stubbornly functional, sporting a battered round, oak dining table and mismatched chairs. There was painfully little by way of decoration in the home, and there was a greasy, black boat motor propped at the back entrance leading to the large back yard. He gave Will a knowing look, as some things didn't change, at least. A yawning, grey faced Rottweiller blearily eyed Will's frantic searching and pacing with bored interest before closing its eyes and slumping to the floor on a folded, worn comforter, falling back asleep beside the greasy motor, clearly used to his master's bad habits. Will crouched down and gave the ancient dog a playful scratch behind his ears, sending the little stub of a tail in an instant wag. "He's slobbery," Will said, but he was smiling, wiping his hands on his jeans as he stood up and left the old dog to sleep in peace.

Hannibal was not so content. In place of his herb garden there were pictures on the wall of strangers, the dog and cat figuring prominently in a few of them, along with children, whom Hannibal assumed were Mischa's. He couldn't help but smile at this, it was something he would have taken pride in, had she survived in that other life. Still, he couldn't help but inwardly remark that they weren't exactly attractive examples of the Lecter clan. A girl and a boy, both with dark hair and eyes, the boy tall and slender, the girl rather squat, her hair hiding her face with a halo of messy black curls. From the years leading up into their teens they were perpetually scowling into every camera, even as babies, two surly, rather miserable creatures if one took the photographs to be any indication of their personalities.

Will sighed, staring down at the ramshackle dining room table, and bringing the space into a shock of brilliant white light as he flicked a switch and bathed it in domestic brilliance. "What do you think?" Will asked, gesturing at the trap door beneath the table. "Shall we discover if some things never change?"

"You are still fond of boats," Hannibal said, gesturing to the motor and the dog snoring beside it. "And filthy canines."

Will didn't answer him, instead moving the oak dining table to one side, an action that had been done countless times before if the deep gouges in the wooden floor were any indication. He watched with bated breath as Will braced himself and pulled the trap door open, revealing a set of narrow stairs and a very well lit space waiting for them underground. A waft of chemicals rose up and Hannibal couldn't help but gag on it, its acidity placing an unpleasant layer on the back of his tongue. Formaldehyde. If he had murderous inclinations, as the presence of this chemical clearly suggested, it was in a far different capacity than the one he enjoyed in that other, already quickly fading, life.

Will gave him a knowing look and he began his descent, Hannibal smoothly following him. The chemical was stronger, now, along with other harsh cleaning products that smelled of various strengths of bleach. His basement was no longer the dark cavern he had previously enjoyed, and instead was a brilliant white, with shining, spotless ceramic tiles lining it from top to bottom, a large drain in the centre of the room along with a vast amount of what looked to be morgue cabinets affixed to one side of the wall. There were three metal tables, fashioned like shallow steel tubs complete with drains at the end, and a shower head affixed above it, along with a harsh spotlight. Will let out a low whistle at this, and turned to Hannibal with no small amount of victorious disdain. "Even when you have everything you want you can't keep away from it," Will said, sneering as he shook his head.

"Will," Hannibal said, taking in the surroundings with a far more critical and less emotional eye, "I am not entirely sure this is supposed to be a kill room."

"What else could it be?" Will snapped at him, a cheap plastic shower curtain separating the storage area for the chemicals from this, the central focus of what Will perceived was Hannibal's murderous might brought into a proper lab setting. "I bet you get a lot of sculptures done down here, there's no mistaking it, you've got all the tools you need. To say I'm disappointed is an understatement, you have everything you want, you have me, you have your sister, you have all of the universe refashioned whole just for your whims, and dammit, here it is! Evidence that you appreciate none of it!" Will angrily nodded his head at the metal doors on the right side of the room, his hands shaking as he pointed angrily at them. "So what will we find behind this? Another cold room for all your delectable treats? I'm warning you, Hannibal, if this results in nothing but blood and death once again, and all is destroyed as it was before, I can't forgive you twice. I won't. I will find a way to kill us both again!"

Will whipped the door open and was forced to step back.

"It's..."

"It's an elevator," Hannibal said, creeping up slowly behind him and then passing Will as he entered it. It was distinctively decorative, with faux wood panelling with a very low ceiling, both Will and Hannibal had to bend to get into it. It was also very narrow. Will cautiously stood beside his friend, his fellow predator, his *husband*, and Hannibal stared at the small, lit up buttons that proclaimed there were exactly three floors to choose from. Hannibal pressed the second floor and the doors slid shut, the elevator smoothly rising upwards to what was, he was sure, the main level of the house.

When the doors opened and Will stepped out, it was obvious why that particular lift was needed. Will held his hand at his mouth as he stretched his way out of the elevator, shocked at what he was seeing, his steps uncertain, his head bobbing in a frantic recalculation of all that was instantly revealed.

"This is...This is a *chapel*."

Confused, Will slid his fingers along the outlines of dark wooden pews that led to a central altar, one that was devoid of specific religious significance, but which had ample flower decorations surrounding it, the stuffy space thick with their fragrance. He walked up the three small steps that led to the lectern, and braced his arms on either side of it, the tiny microphone propped beside it, silent. His voice was naturally amplified as he spoke to Hannibal who was standing stock still at the other end of the aisle, his head cocked to one side in genuine curiosity.

"You're a *funeral director*!" Will exclaimed, his voice echoing across the chapel.

"I will try not to be disappointed in how well you state the obvious, Will. Surely the stench of formaldehyde was an adequate enough clue."

Will shook his head. "This figures."

Hannibal licked his lips. "How do you come to that conclusion?"

"Oh come on, Hannibal, it's not like the two scenarios are all that different, you're still sculpting corpses, you're just getting paid for it this time and they're being brought to you instead of you seeking them out. We're in a new world but this really isn't so far off the mark!"

Hannibal tried, and failed, to quell his annoyance at this. "That is an exceptionally unkind assessment of the funerary arts, Will. I'm going to pretend I did not hear you equate serial killing with those who are hired to respect the dead." Hannibal chewed his bottom lip, taking in the surroundings with a renewed sense of unease. "A chapel. How ironic. I suppose if God exists and He wants to continue with His ridiculous play He will allow my roof to fall upon us. It would seem an adequate revenge for a deity."

Will stormed off from the pulpit and marched down the central aisle, opening the large doors that led into the front foyer, the marble flooring making far more sense than before. "I guess that sign out front is indicative of the family business. Beverly mentioned you're on a 'heat holiday' so I'm guessing that means your calendar is clear at least for a few days. That'll give us some time to figure out where and what we are at least, though I doubt we'll ever truly figure out the *why*."

Hannibal couldn't argue that point. As it stood, they were on the precipice of reality as it was, and Hannibal couldn't understand why this version of himself would choose such a morbid profession when he was clearly far more capable of putting the living into coffins over the dead. Still, the macabre artistry involved did appeal to certain portions of his instincts, and Hannibal had to concede it wasn't an entirely unpleasant vocation for one such as himself. He had plenty of grieving widows and widowers over the years in his practise, and not all of them were entirely made that way by his doing.

A quick, further inspection revealed the remainder of the main floor of the house, save for the kitchen, was dedicated to the business of the dead. The funeral home was not as eye-catching as Hannibal would have liked it to be, and he was already setting up in his mind the small, artful gothic touches that would really make the place stand out as an aesthetic welcoming of the dead. A few hints of Goya here and there would not be remiss, and the lobby sorely needed some mediaeval woodcutting prints, specifically those dedicated to skeletal images of the plague.

A sudden wave of nausea similar to what he'd experienced at the concert hit him, and Hannibal paused at the base of the stairs, his hand reaching out to balance himself as he took a fierce grip of the rails. Will was halfway up and he quickly ran back down, concern etched into every line of his frown. He slid his hand across Hannibal's brow in an intimacy that was highly similar to one Hannibal had given him all those years ago, and he sank into the cool touch of Will's skin, his body aching to melt against him. He could feel thin rivulets of sweat coursing down his spine and he didn't resist when Will placed an arm around his waist, and gently eased him up the stairs to what was, presumably, their shared bedroom.

"Do you think you are suffering some sort of prolonged illness?" Will asked, and Hannibal leaned against him, the touch giving him a strange sense of comfort that equally eased his nausea.

"No. It's not quite a flu. I'm not sure what this is."

He was expecting his usual abode, heavily draped in drop cloths and awaiting renovation, but what greeted them was a strange re-arrangement of his living space. As Will walked down the narrow corridor to open the room he knew contained Hannibal's bed, there was, in its stead, a vast space fashioned out of three bedrooms combined into one and recreated into a very well lit living room. There was a massive, sixty inch television at the far wall, along with three couches arranged around it in a C shape, and beside this there was a pool table, and then further down the left side there was a tucked in bar where a bathroom had once been. At the far end, where they were standing, was a sort of den that took advantage of a built in fireplace original to the Victorian structure of the house, an assortment of winged back chairs curled around it. Though the room was one vast, open space, it had been divided in need, and it was clear from the amount of papers and clutter and books on hunting laying around the floor beside them at their feet that both Hannibal and Will much preferred this little corner for themselves. The space was relatively clean but not clear of human influence as Hannibal's home once was, and there were several indications that this was a common room used by a busy family, the well worn couches and chairs a testament to the amount of time they tended to spend here. Dirty plates with cutlery were left on a coffee table in front of the television, along with an empty bag of potato chips. Hannibal frowned, the rudeness of this irking him.

Mischa's children would have to learn some better manners.

He could feel Will's hand at his lower back and he fought the urge to turn around and near beg with his mouth for more of those delicious kisses that he had been spoiled with at the beginning of their odd journey into this world. It seemed incredibly silly for them to be denying themselves the spoils of desire, especially when it had been so clear to him earlier in the evening that Will was not about to be daunted by the pleasures of the flesh. It was such a small component of what they shared, this needfulness of physicality, and yet Hannibal was more than willing to succumb to it, a melding of skin into that which was admittedly only a very small expression of his love.

He felt physically weak and shaking at present, his body betraying him with strange bouts of nausea coupled with sudden spikes in his fever that he had difficulty diagnosing. It didn't quite feel like a flu, and there was a certain, cyclical ebb and flow to the sensations that were unlike anything he had experienced or witnessed in patients. What he did discover was that Will's touch seemed to ease some of the symptoms and he sought it out even now, pressing closer to him as Will had his arm wrapped around his waist, his head resting against Will's temple.

They journeyed back into the slender hallway and opened what they presumed was a bedroom door, only to be confronted with a violent cacophony of black and red, a chaotic room with walls plastered with various Rob Zombie posters and a frilly canopy bed that was decorated in every gaudy manner of black lace and satin bedcovers. Costume jewellery lay tangled on a dresser with a cracked mirror, smears of make up on discarded tissue tossed on top of them. There were crusty dishes in here, the floor nearly thigh deep in dirty clothes and other assorted teen chaos, along with a pervasive stench of stale, cheap perfume. "Mischa's daughter must be a frequent visitor," Hannibal observed.

Will frowned at this, and shook his head. "I think she lives here."

Curious, Will parted from him, and Hannibal swallowed deeply at how the separation seemed to make him ill, a wave of nausea hitting him anew. He slid his shoulder along the wall as Will opened the second bedroom and found a different sort of arrangement, one distinctively male and far more sporty, though with a faint scent of weed. Mischa's older son stayed here as well. How very odd, why was he their keeper? Had something happened in Mischa's past that had made her an errant parent? It seemed unlikely, the Mischa he knew had been every facet of what he understood to be goodness and light and there was no possible way she could have created such unkempt, dreary creatures as this. No, that had to have been Will's doing. Hannibal let out a moue of disappointment as he closed the elder boy's door.

"Do you understand what this means?" Will said to Hannibal.

"We seem to have to some permanent, messy guests," Hannibal answered.

Will grimaced in nervous anticipation as they opened the final bedroom door and, how blissfully wonderful! His bed was made in starched, white linens, the room was spotlessly clean, his dresser clear of all debris. In fact, it was as if no one resided in this room at all!

It seemed a little small for two people to be sharing.

"This is a guest room," Will said, and Hannibal's hopes fell as he had to silently agree.

There was only one room left and it was directly across from them at the end of the hall. There was a certain suspense involved in opening that door, which Will did with painful slowness, as though expecting a fatal trap to spring from its dark confines and destroy them both. What greeted them, however, was a mess of sheets and comforters, frantically tossed clothes that never quite made it into a hamper, a broken cell phone and a mess of papers on what was, presumably, Will's side of the bed, while on Hannibal's all was neat and free of debris, save an ebook reader which needed recharging and an empty wine glass.

"Our little family has a bad habit of leaving dirty dishes around this house," Hannibal observed. "It seems I am a likewise culprit."

In the centre of the unmade bed was a very large, rotund tabby who glared at Will with a predator glint that suggested it believed he was nothing more than a mouse. Will waved his hand at the feline to bid her leave the bed and earned a couple of ears pressed tight against her head and enough spitting hissing to make a cobra proud. He wisely stood back.

"I take it this is Tiger," Will said.

Hannibal looked down at the small ball of angry fur and wondered what it was that Beverly had found to complain about. The cat simply didn't like Will, was all, as evidenced by the way she curled up in happy purring when Hannibal scooped her up into his arms, her head butting happily and forcefully beneath his chin. He chuckled over her insistent purrs, which increased the more he gently petted her round flank.

Will tried to pet her and she instantly hissed and swatted at him, much to Hannibal's mirth. "I do believe she has a long standing jealousy with you, dear Will."

He released the chubby tabby, who slowly left the room, tail flicking in annoyance in Will's direction.

"Hannibal," Will said, and his voice was filled with unease. "We have children. From the look of their rooms, they must be in their teens, and those images of them downstairs, framed family photos, all the trappings of a normal life...We must have adopted them at some point early in our relationship and we've been a solid family unit ever since. Which begs the question, where the hell are they right now?"

Hannibal wasn't concerned, they weren't children he could easily conceive of as his own, from what he'd seen they had especially bad habits and poor manners and what they were up to in this rather mismanaged partially adult life of theirs was clearly part of their usual routine. Right now he cared more about getting this sheen of sweat off of him and cleansing himself of the sticky sensation it left on his skin. He still felt weak and feverish and the pull of the bed, no matter how unkempt, was one that was difficult to deny. "I need to shower. If you could change the sheets, it would be appreciated."

Will balked at this. "You want us to sleep together?"

"That does seem to have been the arrangement for eighteen years, so yes."

Will hesitated at this, confusion reigning amidst the assortment of wrinkled pillows and the clutter of a life that wasn't their own. He looked ready to protest, only to shrug and hold up his hands at the effort it would take. "I'm too tired to argue. I'm still not entirely convinced we aren't dying and this is all a highly complex hallucination." He watched as Hannibal opened up the large closet and was instantly bemused by Hannibal's tutting over his rather plain wardrobe, which mostly consisted of heavily starched dark cotton shirts and black suits. When trussing the dead one had to look of their number, Hannibal supposed. He rummaged through the drawers of a built-in dresser and pulled out surprisingly silky pyjamas that he would never have purchased. There was some strange green faced cartoon character plastered all over them, and his first inclination was that they were Will's only to realize they were in his own size. Another one of those gifts, he supposed, like the tacky mug. Why did people have this insane need to fill their lives with meaningless bric-a-brac like this? Again, this had to have been Will's influence, purchased as a joke.

"I'm taking a shower," Hannibal said to him, but Will wasn't listening, he was concentrating in that single mindedness of his on the top rack of the closet where a box clearly marked 'Family Papers, Etc.' bid him to satisfy his investigative curiosity. Hannibal sighed and kept the silk pyjamas in his grip as he headed for the en suite. Whatever information Will gleaned, he hoped it could wait until morning.

The en suite was far smaller than the one in that other house, in that other life, this one serving far more function than form. A very simple three piece bathing room designed at some point in the early nineties, with just enough storage space for a gnat. There was a large mirror that went from the sink counter to the ceiling, and it was cracked in the corners, and rusted at the top. The shower was missing tiles and the glass enclosure was obscured and stained with a layer of hard water. Clearly, this Hannibal was not as fussy about his environment, a habit the present Hannibal was very content to change. He had no knowledge of their financial situation at present, but he assumed it would be easy enough to finance a renovation that would please both himself and Will. He much preferred baths to showers, the womb-like heat of a tub a longed for comfort. No, this particular arrangement would not do at all.

The sink counter was crowded with all manner of creams and shaving implements and ratty looking toothbrushes mixed in with new ones and sad, white edged soaps. He picked up a bottle of Citrus Splash Shower Gel with grave distaste and set it down again as he opened the tiny sliver of a linen closet which revealed some bleached out towels and face cloths on one shelf and what was a makeshift medicine cabinet on the one above it. Curious, Hannibal picked up the various little prescription bottles, wondering if either of these versions of themselves were sick. None of them were of brands or pharmaceuticals he recognized, and there were strangely labelled toiletries which seemed more feminine oriented. Sanitary napkins labelled 'slick absorbents, country fresh scent'. Underarm deodorant in purple casings with a field of flowers printed all over it labelled 'Omega pheromone suppressant, lavender.' 'Come Hither--Body Spray For Intimate Evenings.' He had no idea what any of the labels meant, but as they were packaged in highly feminized advertising, he immediately assumed they belonged to their teen daughter, though she why she was using their en suite was a question whose answer would likewise have to wait.

Hannibal grabbed a towel, which was faded but soft and smelling heavily of lily scented fabric softener. This version of himself certainly had an inkling for the florals, another habit he was keen to break. Too many chemicals for Hannibal's liking, and it was a symptom of wanting to mask the odour of the dead. He need not make such anxious concessions for this particular Will Graham.

He slid the suit jacket off and undid his tie, eager to be rid of the lacklustre fabrics, especially the silky purple shirt that was now plastered against his newly sweating skin. He peeled it off like a shed layer of scales from a reptile and tossed the offending thing to the floor, accompanied by the black tie which was not silk but a polyester blend. The trash for both of them as far as he was concerned. He made a move to undo the button of his black trousers, only to pause as he got a good look at his torso in the large mirror across from him. This skin was not without its tragedies, it seemed. Hannibal traced his thumb along the long scar that cut in an angry red welt across the lower half of his abdomen, the jagged shape of it suggesting cruel violence.

He'd been gutted, quite brutally if this scar was any indication, though the healing of it was evidence it had been a very long time ago. There were other marks, silvery lines that looked like once stretched skin, and the flesh at his stomach was wrinkled and flabby, with tendrils of what seemed to be varicose veins coursing in a wave pattern down his flank. Had he once been obese? There was no such loose skin anywhere else, from what he could observe, and it was a strange sort of localization for such a condition. Perhaps there had been abnormal swelling after this inflicted violence, an infection that had gone septic. He shrugged, for other than the odd fever he couldn't place and the accompanying nausea he felt healthy. He decided that a good shower was an adequate treatment for all manner of ills and would no doubt be the cure for this one.

He turned on the shower, the hot water fogging up the mirror as he slid off his pants and kicked them to the floor, along with his underwear and stepped into the blissful heat with a contented sigh. It was not the comfort of a hot bath, but it would do, the water cascading over his skin in a controlled pummelling, one the Atlantic would never have afforded them. He tilted his head back as he breathed in the steamy heat and closed his eyes as the water healed the ache and nausea, washing off that sickly sweat with what felt like sensual abandon. The idea of having Will join him had come too late, and Hannibal had to fight the urge to shout for him to do so. It had been an effort already to suggest they share the bed they clearly had been enjoying in this particular life, and he didn't want to push too much too quickly. They had ample time, and Hannibal had long proved to Will he had infinite patience for their ever expanding and growing connection.

Out of habit more than want, he slid the shower door open a crack and grabbed the washcloth and shower gel from where he'd left both at the corner of the bathroom counter, and brought them into the shower with him. He lathered the cloth up first before scrubbing along his skin, and to Hannibal it felt like he was shedding something ancient and ugly to replace it with something pink and new, smelling of this new existence and all of the joys it was set to bring him. He still hadn't quite figured out how his calculations had formed into this new arrangement of body and soul, and he half wondered if Will was partially right, if they had in fact died and had found themselves in a newly shaped universe that their residual energy propelled itself into. Such a thing would suggest an afterlife, and the possibility of a deity, two things Hannibal knew damned well did not exist and he was not so fallacious as to entertain that train of thought. They had side-stepped death and morphed into another world as a result. One which Hannibal sensed was rich with the promise of its own rather domestic brand of death and beauty.

He slid the washcloth down the centre of his belly, feeling the strange pull of his softened flesh as he lathered it, his hand diving lower in an effort to quell a different sort of nagging his body was giving him in regards to this new world and the Will Graham he had pulled into it with him.

That felt...

Good.

But...

But...

Hannibal let the washcloth fall to the floor of the shower. He slammed the tap shut, arresting the flow of water as his eyes widened at what he saw, his hands staggering against the rim of the shower stall as he tore it open with enough violence to take it off its aluminium rails. He nearly slid on the tiled floor as he careened out of the bathing room, dripping wet and stark naked as he stood in front of Will, his mouth opening and closing in a sudden inability to speak.

"Will..." he managed to say. "Will..."

Will's head shook, and Hannibal didn't have to say more, the confusion and frowning he gave Hannibal's certain nether regions saying that yes, that lack of that...and that *replacement* was very much real and was not at all hallucination.

Not. At. All.

Will's eyes looked down. Looked up and met Hannibal's piercing, frantic gaze. Looked down. Looked up again. Eyes closed. Will's mouth twisted in a grimace, his voice degenerating into frustrated sighs as he opened his eyes again and repeated these exact, infuriating motions three more times.

"Will..." Hannibal said, and he could feel his voice sound very small and strained. "I need you to take a look at something..."

"Certainly explains this," Will said, holding up what looked to be ultrasound pictures of foetuses. Hannibal snatched them from his grasp, his wet grip curling the edges. In the upper right corner in digitized green lettering was what looked to be patient information. H. Lecter, Omega, M. 02/07/98. 4 months. The second picture had the same information, only a different date, three years later to be precise, and there were several images of this second gestation, the ultrasounds taken at staggered intervals of every two months.

"What is this?" Hannibal said, the photos shuffled through with increasing speed and violence.

"I believe those are pictures of our children," Will evenly said. He gently took the pictures out of Hannibal's damp hands and placed them back into the 'Family Papers, Etc.' box he had taken down from the upper shelf and placed on the far corner of their bed. Will tried to keep his focus even on Hannibal, doing what he could not to break eye contact, but finding it increasingly difficult as his gaze kept sinking much lower.

He didn't have to ask permission, Hannibal had already asked him to investigate and that is exactly what Will Graham's curiosity did as he reached out and slid his index finger along that alien flesh and...

Well....

Oh...

Dear Will...

Hannibal's body erupted into a sharp, intense shock of pleasure that buckled his knees and sent him nearly toppling to the floor.

Hannibal lay on his back on the bed, and Will was still acting the part of curious observer, his touch doing incredible, amazing things, things that made Hannibal's body writhe and made it impossible for him to speak. Will's fingers were quite adept at drawing out little sounds from the back of Hannibal's throat and as he continued, there were other automatic reactions occurring in some section of Hannibal's belly, a low vibratory rumble leaving him that sounded suspiciously like a feline purr.

Will touched him *there* and a sudden gush of silken, sweet smelling fluid left Hannibal's newly discovered point of eroticism, a jolt of pleasure now turning into a constant ebb and flow that didn't abate. He had a vague understanding that Will's stance on the matter was no longer that shocked lack of understanding, that his body was doing far better in its muscle memory of knowing what Hannibal liked than he did himself. Will's face was deep between his legs, and oh yes, what was he doing? He felt like every nerve in his body was attuned to pleasure, arms and limbs moving of their own accord, unable to find purchase on true release. This was a very different feeling indeed, this was definitely something worth exploring again and again, and...

Oh...

"Oh fuck, baby, you taste amazing..." He could feel the stubble of Will's beard on the inside of his thigh and this made it even more impossible for him to respond, as did the rasping of his whiskers on that softer flesh as Will grinned. "What a game changer this is. I really know how to bring you to your knees now."

Will crept upward, hands walking along the length of Hannibal's body, kisses delivered to that softened flesh above that long scar, sharp, little caresses brought up to Hannibal's throat, where Will nipped close to the jugular, sending a renewed shiver through Hannibal's body. The tip of Will's length was teasing, and Hannibal felt his knees quiver. Hips rolling, a low and feral sound erupted from deep within Will's diaphragm, like the curling growl of a supreme predator, and this sound, it undid him, it sent Hannibal answering in low rumbles of his own as his body and mind spiralled out of any semblance of control and he succumbed to tightened muscles, nerves sparking into fire and a near painful orgasm that damned near shook his rotted soul out.

He was still riding along the tail end of it, Will's cries sounding like a vastly distant echo as he fumbled in the near dark of the bedroom, his foot tangling in a cord and knocking over a lamp in the process.

"What the fuck!!"

No, his dear Will didn't sound very happy.

What a shame.

"What the fuck is wrong with my cock!!"

Will stormed into the bathing room, Hannibal's focus on him fading. He felt so very tired, and he curled underneath the blankets, his sensitive nose detecting the residual scent of Will on the pillow beside him. He buried his face in it, sighing deeply as he breathed the tendrils of Will's arousal in.

He had an understanding that Will was very upset right now, though Hannibal couldn't fathom as to why. Hannibal felt so calm and relaxed, Will's ranting like a lullaby. Will paced at the foot of the bed, his shirt undone, his pants missing, a pair of grey boxers not at all hiding the burgeoning, red length poking out past the elastic band at his waist. Small balloons of flesh puffed along its sides in venous pink bubbles. Will took another long, horrified look at it before hiding it properly beneath his boxers, the massive length already softening.

"Just great, Hannibal. We're walking around in a Samuel R. Delany novel! We need to find another cliff to fall off of!"

Hannibal softly sighed into his pillow, the grip of sleep near suffocating in its gentle nudging. He felt incredibly boneless, every cell in his body attuned to a deep sense of meditative relaxation. "I'm sure there's a very good purpose for it. Mm, dear Will, come to bed, we need not finish what was started, I feel sated enough. I assure you we can enjoy our new pastiche of sexuality in the vast array of days and years that are set to come."

"This doesn't upset you?! My cock looks like a fucking LUPIN in BLOOM!"

Hannibal groaned. "Why would it, dear Will? You've already proven to me that specific, intimate exploration is quite preferable to death. Before you panicked, I do believe you were about to commit an act of determined procreation." Hannibal widely yawned. "We have found ourselves in a world where all of my theories have come to fruition. The miracle of rejoined teacups begs that we should not be destroyed by such pointless small details. We'll explore these new parameters in the morning."

Will was silenced by this but he didn't stop his constant pacing, which Hannibal had to stop watching, all that movement was making him dizzy.

"Things aren't perfect here at all, so get that out of your head right away. There was some kind of lawsuit, we went to trial and there was a murder conviction, the court papers are all there. You were a witness for the prosecution, your testimony was the main reason Frederick Chilton went to jail..."

Hannibal smiled at this. Fred, a proven monster rotting away in jail, such a pleasant thought to drift to sleep with. What was Will talking about, it all sounded like Heaven. Really, why was Will so relentlessly pacing a hole in the floor, when it was so much more comfortable to relax in bed with him?

"...You weren't the only victim, there were two other women who survived long enough to give a description, at least I think they were women, it just says one was a Beta, whatever that is, and one was an Omega, and I guess...I guess that's what explains everything that's going on *there*." Will's shaking hand made a vague circular gesture at Hannibal's groin. "He murdered five others before he was caught, he's a fucking butcher...He...He was caught in the act with you, it's probably the only reason you survived. Hannibal, they called him the Cesearan Ripper. I'm...I can't get my head around any of this."

Hannibal's palm instantly slid across that wide, ugly scar on his abdomen and traced its uneven, ragged shape. A little flutter of something unpleasant tried to worm its way into his consciousness and Hannibal refused to allow it purchase. He had no interest in a life that held no meaning for him, this Hannibal was completely new, as was Will, and those others from this world were possibly in place of himself and Will as they rolled into the Atlantic and then hopped into whatever other strange universe would take them. He hoped it was one very similar to this one, they seemed like lovely people. How vast and unnerving it is to understand that reality is so very unstable! Streams of worlds melding and colliding with one another, how very fascinating!

Will was, of course, talking and he didn't want to hear more. It all sounded so frivolous. Will was being foolish, spending all this time on chatter when he could be curled in bed, sleeping soundly next to him. It would be nice if he could just stop his silly, anxious prattle and just do what came naturally for once, if only Will could just crawl into bed and wrap his arms in a lovely protective circle around him, and nothing else needed to matter.

"Come to bed, Will," Hannibal said, and it was a near whisper, because he was drifting and falling in a gentle pace into that feathery down of contented sleep, a feeling of intense security so deeply embedded within him it felt like an inward, warm blanket fussing over him and tucking him in.

He didn't hear Will as he left the bedroom, the box of papers in his rough grip as he marched out into the hall and towards the large common room next door. Hannibal's eyes had long since fluttered shut and he was lost to pleasant dreams of flowers growing out of the emptied cavities of corpses.

 


	3. Royal Doulton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will hunts down information. Meet the family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who has been commenting on this weird little thing! Just when I think I have it aaaaall planned out, something weird pops in an it's...Oh! Well *that's* interesting!
> 
> Kudos big time to anyone who can guess what obscure cartoon character is on Hannibal's PJ's. :P

 

YOU ARE NOW ENTERING GATE #12  
chapter three

Will brushed off chip crumbs from the seat of the couch before sitting down with the large box beside him. He'd found a slender, somewhat battered laptop on one of the winged back chairs facing the fireplace in the living room, and he brought this over to his spot on the couch as well. Between Google and these yellowing papers, information could easily be gathered.

What was currently between his legs was a story he was going to have to investigate as well. He put his fears aside, for Will well understood that knowledge is power. He opened up the web browser on the laptop and fired up Google. Doing what he could to keep the trembling from his fingers, he typed in 'human sexuality' and instantly earned links to various medical websites, most of them with far too much information that made the basics of what he needed to know confusing.

In times like these, Wikipedia can be your friend.

He chose the encyclopaedia link and a long article, complete with graphic illustrations spread wide across the screen. So the story went, the human race was comprised of three distinctive genders that could be categorized by chromosomes, and if one added in phenotype that number expanded into six. How's that for lots of room for exploration? Hell, Columbus had it easy if these charts were anything to go by.

Alphas, as Will no doubt was, had large penises that were shaped like slender rods, with rows of circular loose flesh that expanded and contracted during arousal. These were used to 'knot' during mating, especially with receptive Omegas, which according to the detailed diagram was what Hannibal was. Female Alphas also had these same appendages, and in some instances were larger than the males. Female Alphas had pseudo-vaginas, and were unable to bear to children. When an Alpha bitch said she had balls, she meant it, Will learned. They are known to be highly aggressive.

Omegas were also divided into male and female, the 'male' of the gender, as Hannibal also was, sporting a pseudo-penis comprised of an elongated clitoris that hardened upon arousal, especially during highly fertile times of the mating cycle, known as 'heat'. Like the female opposite of his gender, this particular appendage was just for show and clearly enhancement of sexual pleasure. Omega males had perfectly functioning wombs, and tended to have large families due to both usually having very eager, strong Alpha partners and low risk pregnancies. Omega females were distinguished by their significantly smaller psuedo-penis and the eventual development of breasts at puberty, and it was not uncommon for Omega males to be mistaken for females early in their development. Alpha males had no psuedo-vaginas, save for a small indententation just behind the scrotum, considered an evolutionary leftover from when they once did.

The third gender, Betas, were also had this division of male and female and had all the characteristics Will and Hannibal were familiar with. In that other world he'd taken his naughty bits for granted. If he believed in Fate, he could assume such a feeling was due to the understanding that he was destined to find himself in this far more fascinating patchwork of human sexuality. When it came to sex, where they originally came from was pretty damned boring.

After a few more cursory views of other medical websites to make sure he got all of the plumbing information he needed--and dammit, that was a *lot* of information!--Will closed all the windows and deleted the laptop's history. Somehow he'd done the right thing by Hannibal and gave him release, an act that was purely instinctual. He hadn't realized the power of his automatic responses and when Hannibal had sunk in submission onto the bed, it was as if a second Will Graham took over, the body this Will wore well accustomed to that particular brand of affection and instantly keen to enact it. There was some residual twitching within his cock that complained he hadn't done what it really wanted him to do, and even though the memory of Hannibal's strange, sweet scents was doing all sorts of things to his resolve, he wasn't about to go hopping back into bed with him and finishing what biology told him he started.

He was tempted to close the laptop, but a little knowledge was a dangerous thing and he had to wonder what other differences were waiting in that vast world outside of their little space upon it. He reopened Google and typed TattleCrime.org into the address bar, and the page instantly lit up with the gaudy headlines of the day. Freddie Lounds was still the editor in chief, though her little rag now had significantly larger hits, and from the sleek look of the website and what appeared to be indepth editorials, this version of Freddie Lounds was no hack. World events were prominent on the front page, and the crime section was pushed to the sidelines. Michelle Obama was president. A homeless man named Kanye West had tried to break into the White House yesterday afternoon. The thriving city of Chernobyl was hosting the Olympic games this year.

He was going to have to become one hell of a news junkie to catch up on everything. So much for being knowledgeable about history, Will was going to have to warn Hannibal to be on his guard about what he once knew existed and believed to be true. Will wondered how easily it would come to the man, this wiping of his old memories and replacing them with alternative information, a reset that could take years to bring into proper effect. Will shook his head, unable to fathom how it was all to unravel, there was no way they could function in this world without the rudimentary shreds of knowledge needed to navigate it. They knew nothing of its pop culture, nothing of its morals or systems, their family unit was only one layer of alien relativity, there was an entire world outside of their minuscule understanding. Will could feel his panic rising, and he fought against it, figuring that it would be best if he and Hannibal both just learned what they needed to, just enough to get by so people didn't find their lack of connection to this world too odd or suspicious.

They needed to use their killer instincts to pretend.

How about that? There was an upside to being such a narcissistic chameleon. Who was he kidding, Hannibal was going to fly through every ruse with ease, and he'd drag Will's clumsy efforts along with him. Hannibal was long used to playing the game of pretend, he was a master of it.

Will's eye alighted on the crime headline and he felt a twinge of danger curdle in his gut as the white, block letters 'Caesarean Ripper Set For Release' popped at him in significance on a black background. He clicked on the link and the small screen was awash with several columns of text, all dedicated to the terrible crimes of one Dr. Frederick Chilton, who had terrorized the Baltimore region sixteen years ago.

_**Baltimore, Sunday, February 25, 2016** \--Despite public outcry, Dr. Frederick Chilton, also known as the Caesarean Ripper, is set to find his freedom next week in a decision many victim's advocates are calling a gross miscarriage of justice. Originally convicted of five counts of murder and two of assault, Chilton's lawyer has long argued that his client committed the crimes during what was a protracted psychotic break, which led the jury in his trial finding him guilty by way of insanity. Chilton has been imprisoned in the Baltimore Maryland Asylum for the Criminally Insane for the past fifteen years and it is through the efforts of both Chilton's lawyer and his current therapist, Dr. Abel Gideon, that Chilton has been able to sustain his temporary insanity argument._

_"Frederick Chilton poses no threat to the public at large," Dr. Gideon expressed to this reporter. "He has had extensive therapy which has proven effective and has shown grave remorse for the events that transpired in the month of April, 2000. He understands what his crimes were, and is deeply sorry for all of the pain his actions had caused. When he arrived at the Baltimore Maryland Hospital for the Criminally Insane, he was in deep delusion, unable to differentiate between reality and fantasy. I am very happy to say this is no longer the case, and he has made a full, healthy recovery. I think we must be reminded that the ill mind is very much like any other organ, its ability to be repaired as solid as any heart condition or broken bone. Though he will still be monitored in out patient treatment, I am fully confident in saying that Frederick Chilton is now sane and I have ample proof in my daily reports of his significant progress. I am happy the courts have finally agreed with my assessment."_

_Not everyone is as positive in outlook as Dr. Gideon. Garret Jacob Hobbs, whose wife, Louise Hobbs, was attacked and murdered by Dr. Chilton on April 2, 2000, calls the impending release a 'travesty of justice' and is calling on legal counsel to re-examine the decision. "He gutted my wife like a fish and left my infant daughter perched on her chest like some kind of sacrificial offering. It's a miracle my little girl survived. I can tell you this, if that creep thinks he can walk these streets safely, he'd better rethink his plan. I'm a proper butcher, and I know how to cut him up into a million pieces!"_

_Asked if he had been speaking with other victims of the Caesarean Ripper, Hobbs had this to say: "I've talked to Hannibal Lecter, our families have been very close for the past fifteen years. Of course he's upset. You think a million dollar settlement is what's going to help someone sleep at night after a trauma like that? That was no windfall, that settlement got divided up between seven people, and what the lawyers didn't get the hospital bills got next. We lost out then, and we're still losing out. I'm scared to death Chilton's going to come after our kids and finish what he started. The guy's a fucking lunatic, any idiot can see that!"_

_The date of Chilton's release, as well as the location, is being kept under a strict gag order due to death threats against him, as well as threats against the BMHCI staff._

There was a larger report spilling over the rest of the page, a rehashing of Chilton's crimes that he'd read in far more detail in the various court reports he'd pulled out of the box of family papers, where he'd found the ultrasounds of their children. Will closed the window of the screen with a sad sigh, wondering how it was that they never seemed to be free of psychotic murderers in one way or another. Always, with Hannibal, nothing but death and destruction and even now in this fiercely domestic setting he brought it home, if not on their plate then in the very air around them, where the wailing cries of mourners were no doubt often heard over the sounds of Spongebob Squarepants on the upstairs TV.

The laptop was Will's own, and out of curiosity he began hunting through that other version of himself's files, wondering if he had any secrets openly hiding in digital storage, as most people often did. There were a few downloaded popular movies, but otherwise the hard drive seemed clean enough. In the Videos portion, there were several home movies dated from as early as 2005, and since this was a newer laptop Will figured they must have been transferred over from an older model. Many of the videos had a grainy quality, the lighting poor or the camera not quite in focus. Some were crystal clear, like this one of a little girl dancing beside an exceptionally fancy four tiered birthday cake, everything she wore and all of the decorations in various shades of pink.

The camera jerked unevenly and Mischa's slurred voice carried over the small speaker, the shadow of her glass of wine visible as she held it aloft. "Mona! How old are you today, sweetie?"

Mona frowned into the camera, which was adorable, dark curls framing her chubby face. "Daddy says you don't know because you've been drinking again and you forget things when you're wasted." The camera shot back to an image of a much younger, shrugging Will Graham.

"I can't argue what isn't true," he said.

"I've only polished off half the bottle, and you're already digging into the whiskey." Mischa's long finger pointed at him, her wine glass sloshing its contents.  "She's turning six, isn't she?"

"Yeah.  The devil's number."

Will's tumbler of spirits clanked ice and he cast what looked to be an angry, almost jealous glance into the dining room where the round oak table had been pushed to one side to make room for guests. His fingers tightened on the body of the glass. "I see Agent Price got his invite. Great, he's buddies with my boss, too, I'll be hearing all about how great a guy he is all damned day tomorrow, you watch. Of course, he has to fucking haunt every single family event we have. "

Mischa heaved a huge sigh from behind her camera, the focus on a very unhappy Will. "It was four years, ago, Will, and you promised Hannibal you were going to be civil. He was the FBI Agent on scene when Hannibal was attacked, and it was thanks to him they caught Chilton at all, not to mention he's the reason Mona is even having a birthday today, or have you forgotten he's the one who found Hannibal in that hospital room and alerted Emergency." Mischa's camera focused on Will's discomfort. "He stepped in when you stepped out. Hannibal was a mess, Will, and you left him when he was at his lowest. The other miracle is that you're standing here in Price's place, that Hannibal actually forgave you. Not too many people would."

Will stared into his tumbler of whiskey, as though seeking an answer and, as many before him had long learned, there were none.

"Mona, sweetie, what are you doing?" The camera swung back onto the little girl, a young, older boy standing close to her and watching with bland interest as she grabbed the chef knife resting on the table and started making a beeline for the four tiered cake.

Will reached out with one hand to stop her. "No, Mona. Come on, stop it, you have to wait, you'll have some later."

"ABIGAIL WANTS CAKE!" Mona suddenly screamed.

"Mona! Put down the knife!"

"NO!" Mona held the knife high over her head and ran after the cake with the full intent to homicidally stab it. She was one hell of a good wielder, Will thought, as she brought the knife home into the centre of the cake and started demolishing it, Anthony Perkins' Psycho style. Will watched that other version of himself run to her, shouting at her to stop, his thighs smeared with pink icing as he tackled a tiny six year old spoiled rose taffeta princess to the ground and wrestled a massive chef's knife from her tiny grip. The other child, who must have been the older brother, looked on with a sense of protracted boredom, his feet kicking at jellybeans that had spilled onto the floor. The tiny girl, who was presumably their daughter, Mona, wriggled free from Will's grip, leaving the knife on the floor as she headed back for the cake. She picked up an entire half of the lowest tier and plopped it with her hands messily onto a plate. The plate went to another little princess, this one dressed all in purple, and wearing a cracked tiara.

"Here's some cake, Abigail," Mona proudly said as the other little girl took it and began digging into the icing with her fingers and licking them clean of blobs of sugar.

Mona was covered in black forest crumbs and whipped cream, as were Will's thighs. "What's going on?" Hannibal, arriving well after the fact, dressed in another simple, dark suit, was shocked at the state of his daughter and the centrepiece on the table. "Will! I told you they had to wait on the cake until after she opened her presents! That's hardly a way to cut it! Oh, Abigail, sweetheart, that is far too much cake, take at least another fork and share it with Marcus."

Marcus walked away, absorbed in the antics of his Tamagotchi, disinterested in being drawn into the drama. Will watched him disappear out the back door, a slobbering black shape let in as he went out.

"She had the fucking knife! It's not my fault she wouldn't listen and went at it like Michael Myers!"

A wagging, hyper puppy appeared on the scene and instantly began licking at tiny Mona's cake smeared dress and her hands, its sloppy pink tongue making her giggle as it ecstatically licked chunks of cake out from between her fingers.

"Down! Samson, stop it! Really Will, that stupid dog has been drinking out of the toilet, get him out of here!"

The camera jerked uneasily as Mischa tipsily aimed it at Will, who was now ushering the dog back outside. The tiny kitchen and dining room had mostly adults milling about, and he recognized Jack Crawford and Bella, who were chatting with a rather dapper version of Jimmy Price as well as Beverly and...

Will's heart grew cold. Hell, maybe it had even stopped.

Was that Garrett Jacob Hobbs?

It shouldn't have been a shock. The newspaper article had more than hinted he was a close friend of their family since Chilton's trial, but Will hadn't expected it to be their kid's birthday party close.

Mona was crying, and Mischa put the focus back on her, Hannibal crouched down at her level, his dark suit woefully out of place amidst the casually dressed adults milling about the small area. "Mona, why did you do that to the pretty cake?"

He didn't know how she did it, but somehow Mona's unshed tears made her eyes look six times bigger and sadder than was humanly possible, her bottom lip pouted out long enough to use as a shelf. Her breath was hitched as she voiced her complaint in a high pitched, agonized staccato and you had to be some special kind of monster not to look on her and think she was the cutest little thing the world had ever been blessed with. Even if she did handle a knife better than old Jack the R. himself.

"Daddy said we couldn't have any...And Abigail wanted a piece...And Daddy said we weren't having cake...And that's not fair...And then Auntie Mischa got drunk..."

"Don't go pulling me into this, kid!" Mischa shouted from behind the camera.

Mona's wails began to get more forceful as her story increased in scope. "...And then Daddy told me I'm not allowed to have cake, ever...And I was gonna get a little piece for Abigail...And...And...And then Daddy pushed me to the gr-ground..."

"Aw, my poor baby. That's very mean of Daddy." Hannibal scooped her up in his arms and she hugged him tight enough to choke him, her tiny little body wracking with dramatic sobs. Will noticed that Mona's arm had a long red welt coursing down its length, but it wasn't bleeding. An old injury, a warrior wound of childhood, Will assumed.

Mischa focused on her brother as Hannibal glared at Will. "Really, Will."

Will stared back at him with wide eyes, incensed. "She wouldn't let go of the knife!"

"So you football tackled a six year old girl. Genius. Absolute."

"You are acting like this is my fault. *You* said they had to wait on the cake!"

Hannibal coldly ignored him. "Come on sweetheart, let's go the bathroom and get you cleaned up. There's lots of pretty presents for you, so let's wash those tears away, and have a happy birthday instead, hm? It's so overwhelming, isn't it, having a big party like this, and all you wanted to do was make your friend happy. I think you did just fine with that, look at Abigail, digging into more than half the cake. You're generous to a fault, dear Mona."

And as Hannibal left the room with their tearful smeared little princess in his arms, it was Garrett Jacob Hobbs who entered the kitchen, grabbing a handful of black plastic forks along the way. He gave one to Mischa and one to Will and kept the last one for himself. And there she was, that daughter they had both almost had, that whisper of a family that was clearly very real and solid in this world, all hopes and longing for the past to aright itself fashioned into a tiny six year old Abigail Hobbs and a giant plate of cake in front of her.

Was he about to break apart right now? He certainly felt as though he would, this world slipping into him with an eel's ease, nipping at all those old sores that were still bleeding. Hannibal had scarred him so deeply he had made his own pain one with Will's, a shared ache that would forever easily bruise.

"It's a very big piece, honey," Hobbs said to his daughter and he toasted everyone else's fork with his own. "Not to worry, we'll help you out. Let's dig in!"

Will closed the video off, unable to watch more of it. If she was alive here, in this world, what did this mean for them now? He felt the tears well up from deep within him and he fought to keep them choked down. Relief and sadness were still fighting with one another, for while this was an Abigail Hobbs, she wasn't *their* Abigail, was she? He could be wrong, it could all still be the same, it could be that realm he'd had in his head when their family was tightly woven together in his fantasies, he was in a place of hope made real. How did this whole thing work, this world slippage, this patchwork of lives they found themselves in?

He wiped the moisture from his eyes with the heels of his hands and with heaving sighs he forced himself to open another folder, this one hidden amongst some family photos and slightly older than the others. It was marked 'Special--1999. Hot.' It was an older video file in .mp4, and fairly large, though not large enough to be a proper movie file.

Frowning, Will doubled clicked on it, and a small window using a different video player popped up into the right hand corner of the screen. He had to turn up the volume to hear it properly, and he was surprised to see both himself and Hannibal in what looked like a hotel bedroom, in far younger, fresher years.

Will was positioning a video camera on what looked to be a shelf opposite the bed. He was grinning widely, his face devoid of any semblance of stress, a boyish charm to him that was amplified by his clean shaven face and oddly muscular physique. He wore nothing save a pair of tight grey boxer shorts that left little to the imagination.

"I just called my dad and told him to keep Marcus for the night. I'm so glad you came out here and had dinner with me, baby." Will bit his bottom lip in eager anticipation. "And that you'd prefer to sleep over. I'm sorry this whole thing happened during your heat cycle, but it's not like I can say no to this opportunity. I'll make you feel better, I promise."

Hannibal walked into the room, looking incredibly young and nervous, a sheen of sweat covering his skin as he frowned over what Will was doing. "I didn't say yes to this," this meek, young Hannibal complained, and Will waved his concern away with an impatient hand.

"It's just for me, baby. I'm stuck here in Virginia, heading to Quantico via the highway every day for a week with Jack Crawford, getting that mini-course in forensics in. It doesn't happen that often, but I do have to assist on crime scenes sometimes and it's better to know where not to put the spatula. Besides, it's another ten grand a year, that's a raise I can't pass up. Jack doesn't give this kind of go ahead to just anybody, he loves my work and he wants to officially make me the coroner's full time assistant. He says I scrape them off the pavement better than anyone he knows."

"It doesn't matter how long the grass is, you never miss a tooth," A tired and rather sick looking Hannibal said, clearly quoting a phrase this version of Will Graham used often.

"That's right, baby. Master of the meaty tarmac, that's me." He checked the window of the video camera and rubbed his hands together. "Perfect."

Hannibal wasn't impressed. "You're only going to be gone a couple of weeks, hardly a marathon of celibacy. I'm sure you'll remember how much fun we had before you left just fine, without some stupid tape."

Will kissed him, softly at first, and then with deeper passion. His hands worked the buttons of Hannibal's dark dress shirt, opening them in teasing slow movements. "Mm, you taste so good when you're in heat. It's all over your skin, your mouth. I can't wait to get between your legs." He pulled away, suckling Hannibal's bottom lip between his teeth lightly before letting the soft flesh go. "This is more important to me than just some masturbation material, Hannibal. We're making a baby, one we planned for this time. I want a record of everything, of how good I made you feel, I want us to look at this together as proof of our commitment. To have evidence of how much I love you, baby, so much that a second away from you is agony..."

Things were definitely heating up, and Will continued to watch, cringing in parts and shocked in others as he earned a far greater understanding of Alpha and Omega dynamics than any websites he'd visited that evening could possibly explain. He'd certainly have to try *that* move, it was obvious from the way Hannibal was shouting he really, really liked it.

The sex itself was passionate enough, but for Will the arousal was all about tastes and sounds, especially with all those strange little growls and purrs of pleasure rolling out of Hannibal's diaphragm like muffled velvet. Yeah, he'd definitely wanted Hannibal to look like *that*, his eyes closed, mouth open and wanting, body tensed and attuned to every movement Will dared to place upon it. He could feel that alien cock in his pants twitch at the images, and he glanced at the entrance leading out into the hall, where their bedroom was laying in wait, as was his partially tamed monster, who was possibly feverish once again, longing for his comfort right this minute.

It was a good twenty minutes before they were finished. A collapsed young Will Graham and a very happily sated Hannibal were in a tangle of sheets and limbs on the bed, smiles pressed against each other. Will turned up the volume to listen in on the pillow talk.

"Everything is going to go great for us from here on in, baby, I promise," Will said. "I'll get that raise and we can move into a better place. Get out of that dumpy apartment, make sure Marcus goes to a good school. Maybe we can even save up a little, when they give you more hours at work. Get that down payment on a house you wanted."

Hannibal sighed sadly at this. "I wish we had enough to buy that house on Thomas Lynch Blvd. It's perfect for branching out on my own, but the start up debt is going to be huge. Carrying a mortgage on both a home and a business will be impossible for us to manage even on both our salaries."

Will shrugged at this. "So we combine a home and our work. Not a big deal."

Hannibal shifted his head on his pillow at this, Will's fingers lightly tracing the outline of his sharp cheek as he turned to face his husband. "You want us to raise a family in a funeral home?"

Will kissed his forehead, and then placed another on his pouting lips. "Why not? We make enough money to get a good start and then think about moving out later, after some of the bills are paid and we start turning a profit. It'll work perfect, the kids will be too young to notice they ever lived there."

"Their formative years will be full of coffins," Hannibal reminded him.

"Just a couple of years is all it will take, and by that time we can get a house separate from the business. They'll be starting school in a corpse free environment. It's a guaranteed moneymaker, baby, it's not like people can avoid being dead." Will grinned into Hannibal's concerned frown. "We'll call the bank tomorrow."

Will closed the video, and then the laptop itself, shutting it off. He sat in the warm, darkly lit silence of their living room, a worn couch beneath him, a box of alternative history sitting on one side of him, scattered court papers on the coffee table in front of him. He was surrounded by a warmth and affection that had long eluded him, one he had never thought, in all of his gift of imagination, that he deserved.

He closed his eyes and rested his head back on the cushions, their rough texture digging into the ache in the back of his neck. He was falling now, down into that wet cavern, down, down, hitting craggy rocks along the way, the ocean reaching up, foamy arms embracing him tight as they collected them into their watery mist.

~*~

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE?"

Will's eyes shot open and he toppled off of the edge of the couch, and whacked his head hard on the corner of the coffee table. Stunned, he reached out blindly, his hands frantically searching out a weapon he didn't have. He'd collapsed on all fours onto the floor and looked up in abject confusion at the two strange figures staring down at him in mute dismay. The one female looked oddly familiar, and Will, not sure what else to do, managed in his shaken, sudden wakefulness to utter, sotto voice, "Mona?"

The silent young man beside her grabbed Will by the shoulder and helped him back onto the couch, where he sank into it, his head still shaking in disorientation, a bruise creeping along his temple from where he'd landed on the coffee table. "Marcus...I..."

The young woman standing before him was dressed all in black, looking like she'd wandered off of a vampire movie, complete with long black leather trench coat and smeared burgundy lipstick and smudged, thick black eyeliner circling piercing blue eyes. Her lips were twisted in a tormented grimace, as though her feet had just been stomped on.

"OH MY GOD, ARE YOU AND MOMMY FIGHTING??"

"Mona, we aren't fighting, I was just looking over some things and I guess I fell asleep, I..."

Mona wasn't one to be deflected so easily, however, and she grabbed a handful of the court papers into her pale grip, shiny black fingernails and her fingers adorned with a ridiculous amounts of pewter jewellery. She shook the papers in Will's face. "WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT THESE! YOU SAID YOU WEREN'T WORRIED!"

"Jesus..." Will tried to back away from her accusation, but it kept pummelling at him like a drowning torrent. "Mona, I was just...I was curious and..."

"OH MY GOD! YOU'RE GOING CRAZY LIKE ABIGAIL'S DAD! WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS! YOU PROMISED ME YOU WOULDN'T EVEN LOOK AT THEM, THAT'S HOW UNWORRIED YOU WERE! WHERE'S MOMMY??"

"Mona..." Will's hands shakily met his temple. Damn, that was going to be one hell of a goose egg. "Mona stop fucking screaming, for fuck's sake, please!"

Mona's face crumpled into abject misery and the tears immediately started flowing. She was still pulling the same crap as when she was six, Will quickly discovered. A habit that had never been broken.

"OH MY GOD, STOP YELLING AT ME!"

"I am not yelling at you!" Will yelled.

"Will. What's going on?"

Hannibal stood in the entrance to their living room, dressed in the ridiculous silk pyjamas, the weird cartoon, green face with its overly large, white eyes staring into nothing like little patchwork eggs. The face was interspersed with little rust coloured spoons. It was not a cartoon Will was familiar with.

"Mommy!"

Oh, so she did know how to talk in a normal voice. Mona instantly ran to Hannibal and threw herself into his arms, nearly toppling him with her overreaching misery. She sniffled into Hannibal's shoulder, her mouth a big, twisted line of half truths spewing blobs of emotion at him. "Daddy's sleeping in here, and he lied and said you didn't have a fight, and he lied about the papers and I got mad that he lied and...and..." Big hitched sobs, all ugly snot and blubber. "He's looking at those papers and he said you were okay, but he lied and...and...and then he yelled at me! He was so mean and all I wanted to know was that you were okay and he wouldn't tell m-me..and...and..."

"My dear, sweet child," Hannibal instantly wrapped his arms around her and petted the back of her head in much the same manner as he had enjoyed petting the cat. "Daddy clearly has an ill temper he needs to get under control." Hannibal rested his chin on the top of his daughter's head and glared at Will over it. "Really, Will. Shouting at her? Is this any way to start?"

"Mona started screaming the minute she walked in here! She woke me up, I fell and hit my head on the fucking coffee table!"

"Stop swearing in front of the children," Hannibal harshly admonished him between clenched teeth.

Will turned to his silent son, who stood off to one side, hands loosely in his pockets, a bland expression on his face. "Marcus, help me out here, she started it!"

Marcus shrugged and slumped onto the opposite couch, and pulled out his cell phone. He began txting and ignoring all of them.

Hannibal, however, practically purred over this stranger he'd just met, the chaos of the moment quelled second by second as she wept and calmed in turn in his embrace, a tender kiss placed expertly into the part of her hair. "You are my dear child," Hannibal stated, and he sighed and held her tight against him, a treat Mona most definitely took full advantage of. There was no small amount of wistfulness in his voice as he said, "How perfectly you fit into my arms. What a lovely feeling. How blessed I am to have you with me."

Hannibal widely grinned and Will was shocked that the sentiment he observed was wholly genuine, Hannibal's stance relaxed and happy, his eyes closed in pure bliss as he breathed the scent of his daughter in. "I suppose I should not find it strange that my body has every memory of you. You are so deeply loved, my precious girl." He pulled her away gently and framed her wet cheeks in his palms, staring down at her in what Will could only interpret was maternal affection. "It's late, Mona. And you have school tomorrow morning."

Mona nodded, her bottom lip jutting out and quivering in that now familiar shelf. "I have biology for first period. They're making us take apart a live chicken. I'm going to behead mine first, I'll take the five percent grade penalty."

"No point ruining the meat of a perfectly good chicken," Hannibal agreed, and to Will's shock Mona did, too. "A frightened bird becomes bitter. You're still shaking and upset, my poor girl. Would you like some hot cocoa?"

Mona contemplated this for a long moment, considering it only to shake her head. "Thank you anyway, Mommy." She kissed Hannibal pleasantly on the cheek, leaving a burgundy mark on its hollow. "Goodnight, Mommy."

Then, before he could get away, she swooped down on Will like some vicious carrion bird and though in some distant future he would claim he most certainly did *not* flinch at her touch, fully expecting a blow, Mona gave him a sweet kiss on his forehead where the bruise was swelling, leaving a perfect imprint of her lips on the rounded purple mound. "'Night, Daddy. Love you."

"Yeah...I...You too, honey."

Hannibal ducked into the hall, walking with her the short distance to her room. They were in private conversation, and Will could sense the fascination and surprise at their apparent closeness, his grin matching their calmed daughter's. It was now, while they were momentarily alone, that the ever silent Marcus decided to speak.

"Is everything really okay?"

Will shook where he stood, the weight of Marcus's words, the very way he said them pulling all of the universe into his mouth and forming vast judgements around every syllable, until there was nothing at all left of Will Graham but a single light bulb in an interrogation room, with Marcus drenched in shadows in front of him.

Will frowned. Faltered. Marcus took this in like he was studying the very fabric of the universe. "It's okay. Really."

Will was given a good once over by his son, a feeling that not only made his skin crawl, but left the inexplicable sensation that Marcus had an omniscient view of all of his secrets and he was just biding his time until Will couldn't help but realize he knew. He was long limbed like his mother, but the stoic silence was a tool he'd stolen from his grandfather's genes, and with his arms crossed the way they were and the scowl that pinched his wide brow over almond shaped eyes, there was no mistaking the Ezra Graham outline bearing down on Will.

"Hope so," his son said, unsmiling. He uncrossed his arms and legs and left the couch, his knee nudging against the array of court papers strewn about the coffee table and floor, a silent order to hide them away, and a silent admonishment that he'd upset the family leaving them out like this. Marcus Graham-Lecter was disappointed in his dear old dad.

Will began gathering up the papers as Marcus left the room and as he headed for his own bed, Will managed to mumble, "Goodnight, son." This seemed to suffice, and Marcus gave his father a tight, but not dismissive, nod.

This restrained goodnight was not visited upon him by Hannibal, however. Marcus paused in the doorway of his bedroom, halted there by what biology dictated was his mother, the impatience he clearly felt at Hannibal's intrusion on his space palpable. "Mona says that Garrett is acting especially erratic these days, and he was heavily drinking tonight and that's why the two of you had to leave. Is Abigail all right? You should have brought her with you."

"She's fine," Marcus said, and shrugged one of his lanky shoulders.

Hannibal didn't catch the extra meaning in the words, though Will certainly did. What Marcus was really saying was that Abigail has had to deal with this particular problem for quite some time now and she was used to it. She gets embarrassed when her company has to witness her father when he's at his worst. She wanted to come, but he would have freaked out, and it was easier to stay. None of this information met Hannibal, who gave his son a warm press of his palm on his cheek and a light kiss goodnight on his opposite one. Marcus turned around as Hannibal, yawning made his way into their bedroom. He caught his father's eye and gave him another, knowing nod that spoke essays. _'I love you, Dad. Get some rest. Keep an eye on Mom. I don't want the whole house going loopy, okay?'_

Will gave him a shaking nod back, one he hoped conveyed that he was going to do his best. His son slunk into his room and shut his bedroom door, leaving the gesture with no additional silent comment.

Sighing deeply, and with the box of Family Papers & Etc. in his hands, Will walked back into their bedroom, taking care to put the box back in its accustomed spot. Hannibal was sitting up in bed, wide awake against Will's sudden exhaustion. Will shakily crawled under the covers, not even the sweet scent of Hannibal's skin doing anything to alleviate the furious pump of his heart.

"In all of five minutes of meeting her, my daughter has shattered every nerve in my body. She's terrifying, Hannibal. She is Shiva the Destroyer, a histrionic goddess who belly flops onto every small stressor like an atomic bomb."

"She is a fifteen year old girl who is very concerned about her parents." Hannibal gave Will's tired face a relaxed once over. "Did you find out anything of interest?"

"Dr. Frederick Chilton tried to kill you fifteen years ago. They called him the Caesarean Ripper, and I think you can guess as to why." Will pulled up the shirt of Hannibal's pyjamas, his finger alighting along the jagged, silvery scar across his abdomen. "They're letting him out for being a good little crazy and responding well to treatment. Dr. Abel Gideon was his psychiatrist and this leads me to believe we may have something to worry about after all."

Hannibal sank onto his pillow, his face close to Will's as they spoke to one another across feather down in the dark. He pulled the covers up and over their shoulders, cocooning them in the bed together. "Perhaps. I would not want anything to happen to my children, especially as I am just getting to know them. It's a strange feeling, Will, the way my body instinctively is familiar with them, that every organ within me understands they shared this house of flesh and blood with their beating hearts close to mine. I already feel an intense and overpowering need to provide and protect them at all costs. Despite their bad habits, they are caring and loyal children, with fierce sparks of creativity and strength. They are children we made together, Will, they share aspects of our mutual history. This fills me with more comfort than you can possibly imagine."

But Hannibal was wrong. Will could imagine it, his empathy bursting in connective synapses in thoughts of Abigail and images of a dead sister brought back to life, of a desired friend now reborn into a lover, of unfortunate choices rectified, of the longing for family fed in abundance. Hannibal shivered and Will understood he was feeling the effects of his heat again, his skin sweet with his pheromone rich sweat. Will slid closer to him, embracing him loosely in his arms, a gentle kiss offered to Hannibal's eager lips.

"I was doing some other research on a laptop that was left in the den. I found an interesting home video you might like." Will began teasing open the buttons on Hannibal's ridiculous silk pyjamas, liking the way the man trembled slightly at Will's sudden confidence. He felt a low, feral growl rumble through his chest at this soft submission, and Will especially liked the way Hannibal responded to it, becoming pliant beneath Will's touch as Will crawled over him, his strong, muscular arms caging Hannibal beneath him. The pants were easy enough to slide off, what his hands didn't reach tactile toes pulled down, and Hannibal kicked the offending fabric from his ankles, shoving it with his feet to the bottom of the bed.

Will stole his mouth and tasted that aromatic, heady burst of sweetness once again, that scent and that flavour now so intricately linked to their fall.

Hannibal sighed as Will moved over him, his back arching as Will's sex brushed against his own. "What have you set your mind to now, dear Will? Am I to melt beneath you? I would not be averse, your touch alone gives me so much pleasure. Lovemaking is natural for us in this world, Will, and I am increasingly enjoying all of its earthly delights. You are the one at present with the bulk of knowledge, and to your newly found expertise I am willing to submit."

Will kissed him again, his tongue rolling across Hannibal's, scraping against his sharp teeth before breaking free to kiss again. He gently nipped at Hannibal's neck, a low purr meeting that action, and Will grinned into the response, knowing he'd found an erotic point to exploit. His skin was delightful, and Will couldn't stop himself from suckling and licking it, the sheen of sweat a dew he could easily find addictive.

"Will." Hannibal's voice was a whisper in the darkness of their marriage bed. "What are you about to do?"

Will licked at Hannibal's throat, sending another paroxysm of purring in a deep vibration through his chest. He thought about the video he'd watched, of the cries of pleasure that other Will had ellicited from that other, willing Hannibal.

"I'm going to revisit history," Will said, and most certainly did.

 

 


	4. Limoges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast is ready. Hannibal has an appointment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not really any warnings here except about female stuff that you *shouldn't* be icked by. Get regular check ups and kick cancer in the 'nads!

 

 

YOU ARE NOW ENTERING GATE #12  
chapter four

Hannibal was not content with the lacklustre ingredients in their refrigerator, but he managed to scrape together a passable protein scramble, even if it was devoid of human sausage. Breakfast appeared to be a common family ritual, one that Hannibal was glad he wasn't forced to implement. His children were sombre and silent as they perched themselves on stools at the kitchen island, while Hannibal fussed over the final touches of french pressed coffee and poured his children glasses of orange juice. He was tired from lack of sleep, but his body held a pleasant ache that Will Graham was entirely responsible for. The odd pair of pyjamas had been put hurriedly back on, and he'd found a familiar looking navy housecoat he had long thought was lost to him. He'd been up a good hour before everyone else and had begun what was thankfully a regular morning routine.

The stairs creaked heavily as Will stumbled down them, his palm roving over his ragged beard as he entered their small kitchen, wearing a fresh pair of boxer shorts and a grey t-shirt. Hannibal watched his entrance with a renewed expectation, his skeleton mug filled with steaming hot coffee and held aloft as he greeted him. Their two children were busy poking forks slowly into their food and eating Hannibal's prized scramble with tired, bored contemplation.

"Good morning, Will, the coffee is fresh," Hannibal promised, and Will, softly smiling, wrapped his arms around Hannibal's waist and gave him a chaste kiss on his neck that made both of their children grimace in disgust. He grinned at Mona's stricken look of horror as Will got himself a mug and poured a fresh cup with what was left in the french press.

"Do you guys have to be so gross *every* morning?" She sneered over her eggs, and gave her brother a knowing look that he merely nodded at in agreement.

"It's healthy for a child to witness their parents showing affection for one another," Hannibal said and, smiling at a secret he thought only he and Will shared, brought his mug of coffee to his lips. Mona poked her fork anxiously into her plate, the metal making heavy dings against the ceramic. She was decked out in what was her usual gothic attire, various layers and shades of black, silks mixed with poly blends and chunks of wrinkled, broken lace. She could never wear just one necklace, or ring, her ears adorned with a series of holes, and to Hannibal's observation she had enough silver on her to repel any amorous, hormonal werewolves who might be tempted by her fierce nature. It was a suitable deterrent from male attention, Hannibal felt, and he wasn't about to interfere with its effectiveness.

She sucked on her teeth and gave her father a worried grimace. "Did you guys have fun at the concert?"

Will grinned widely at the memory, and Hannibal was delighted to see the relief that flooded over Mona as she responded to Will's genuine joy. "It was amazing! Front row, and loud enough to blow out an eardrum, just the way I love it."

Mona eagerly grinned at this, and even giggled along with her father. "That's so awesome! What was their last set? I bet it was on FIRE!"

"Sadly, your father and I had to leave before the concert was finished," Hannibal carefully said, watching every flicker of Mona's changing mood and calculating exactly what to say so as to not upset her. She was wound tight with worry, this child of his, as though expecting every aspect of her world to crumble at any moment. He wondered what had put such an unhappy belief in her heart, and he decided he would do all he could to heal it. "I wasn't feeling well, so we came home."

"Man, that blows," Mona said. She ate a few more mouthfuls of her protein scramble and pushed the remainder of it aside. "Good thing you got that appointment today. Are you picking me and Abigail up from school? She texted me last night, she wants to sleep over."

"It is a school night," Hannibal reminded her and Mona fretfully sighed. An appointment? Frowning, he turned to look at the various papers tacked with magnets on his refrigerator and discovered a yellow sticky note with the day's date on it, and Dr. DuMaurier inked on it in Will's familiar scrawl. Interesting. He wondered in what capacity Bedelia counselled him here. It was no doubt a long, protracted discussion that lasted fifteen years and involved the near tragedy that Frederick Chilton had inflicted on his body. From what Will had told him last night, Fred's series of crimes had been particularly brutal, all involving patients in the last few weeks of their pregnancies. The Caesarean Ripper would stalk the maternity ward of various hospitals and seek out those who had been left alone. He would pretend to be a doctor giving a simple examination and then would strike, splitting the victims apart and tearing out their infants, leaving them to rest on dying breasts.

Hannibal had no clue what Fred's insane reasoning was for this act, he'd always seemed such a bland and pointless, small man. Since he attacked the especially vulnerable, Hannibal couldn't say he felt any manner of respect in the fact the man had it in him to kill. It was rude to kill someone who had no ability to fight back and what possible slight could a newborn infant have afforded the ignorant lout? He tried to imagine the gory scene of such a birthing and was instead brought back to that fateful morning in Lithuania, when Mischa was pulled into the snow and the sickening crack of that axe when it fell upon her neck.

A soft kiss at his cheek. "You okay?"

Will's palm pressed against the back of Hannibal's neck and the touch was so soothing Hannibal couldn't stop himself from sighing into it. He couldn't ruminate too much on what Fred had done. Though Hannibal prided himself on the fact he had no limits, it seemed Chilton had found one for him.

"Are you feeling sick to your stomach?"

Hannibal frowned at Will's gentle concern, only to discover he had placed his coffee mug down and had both of his hands pressed tight against his abdomen, along that terrible scar. Hannibal looked up at Mona, who stared back at him, piercing blue eyes wide with that ever present, simmering worry. "Nothing a doctor's check up can't solve," Hannibal said, and she was instantly happier at this, and he had to concede his daughter had been born with her father's intuition enough to know that the physical was far easier to heal than the mental.

His son, however, was far more of a puzzle, and Hannibal watched Marcus carefully as he sipped his orange juice in silence and ate the offering on his plate with an equally stoic resolve. As the eldest by three years, he had placed himself in the role of family observer, gaining an insight that Hannibal found unsettling. Where he had a near miraculous instant closeness to his daughter that had very little to do with biology, the connection to his son was meant to be earned. He was much like his father in this respect, and Hannibal wondered if he was likewise gifted with his fascinating empathy.

"What are your plans for the day, Marcus?" Hannibal ventured.

Marcus shrugged. "Going to work."

Hannibal glanced at a time sheet tacked onto the refrigerator. Quite the array of lives were organized on that steel door. "At the veterinary clinic, with Beverly?"

"That's the one," Marcus dully replied. "I quit the night shift at the grocery store."

Hannibal gave him a thin smile. "I'm glad to hear it, it was far too tiring for you." He picked up his mug and took a long sip of coffee. Will had left the kitchen and was pacing around the dining room, searching through papers left on a sideboard and clearly gleaning all manner of information about their lives from it. "Have you given any more thought to college?" Hannibal asked his son, knowing this was a question often asked of children his son's age, and wouldn't be considered odd. Besides, a choice of vocation would give him a further hint into his eldest, enigmatic child's personality.

Marcus finished his glass of orange juice before replying. "Not really. I got everything saved up, though, should be able to get on the plane to Lithuania starting in the fall. Figure I'll start with the Lecter family castle and then move my way around the Baltics, there's lots of couch surfing spots I can stop at along the way. Maybe a hostel or two if I have to, or just sleep rough if the weather's good enough."

"I see," Hannibal said, and he forced himself to keep smiling. "And how long do you plan this trip to last?"

Marcus shrugged, as though he'd answered this question several times before, "I've told you, until the money runs out and then I'll come home, work my ass off in odd jobs around the clock another year and then take off to India next."

Hannibal paused over his coffee at this. "And how long is this pattern meant to repeat itself?"

Marcus shrugged again. "I dunno. Until the world runs out, I guess."

Much as he wanted to respect his son's choices, Hannibal felt a jolt of disappointment course through him. A sense of adventure was one thing, but there were practicalities that had to be observed, long range responsibilities that would enhance and shape his son's life into a champion's future, filled with naught but success. He tried, hard, to keep the judgement from his voice, but it crept in on every vowel, and in the way he couldn't meet Marcus's steady glare. "So. You are keen to become a professional hobo. I hope you understand, Marcus, that while such adventures are fascinating in the short term, there is the problem of what you will do with the knowledge you acquire, and it doesn't sound to me that you have a plan in place. You cannot support a family in such a lifestyle, for one, and lack of education will bar you from putting in roots, no matter where you may find yourself. There is also the problem of living so close to the Earth, as you plan to do, for it is as all jungles are, fraught with predators keen to eat you alive. It can be a very dangerous thing for a coddled young man from suburban Baltimore to be plunked amidst the guerilla warfare of some as yet unknown point on an unstable continent. I suggest you reconsider, or at the very least start reading the news with more interest."

Marcus let his fork loudly drop to his empty plate. "I am so sick of this. This is why I can't talk to you."

"Well, I'm very sorry if my injection of reality is hitting a little close to the bone, Marcus." Hannibal could feel his irritation seeping out, and he was relieved when Will returned to them in the kitchen, frowning over a series of papers in his hands, which he shuffled through in distracted concentration as he poured himself a fresh cup of coffee. "Will," Hannibal said, gaining his attention as he looked up, their eyes meeting. "Our son has decided to opt out of human evolution and become a bum. Being a man familiar with the immediate effects of severe hypothermia, violent assault, recreational abuse and animal attacks, perhaps you can remind him what kind of corpse we will be picking up from whatever obscure airport he decides to be shipped to."

Will gave his a son a quizzical glance, which Mona answered for him. "Mommy's worried Marcus is going to die while he's hiking across the world."

"You're planning on travelling?" Will asked, and Marcus gave him an eager nod at this. Contrary to Hannibal's wishes, Will grinned widely at the prospect, a sense of pride emanating from him that Hannibal did not at all agree with. "That's great. It takes guts to do something out of the box like that, you'll have lots of stories to tell."

"You agree with this nonsense?"

"It's his life, Hannibal, you of all people should be happy he's doing what he wants with it. I'm sure Marcus has already made a very detailed list of the pros and cons of his decision and I trust him to be well aware of the dangers and to have plans in place to deal with them." Will reached out, and--How infuriating! He was smiling!--squeezed his son's shoulder in a show of paternal support.

"Thanks, Dad," Marcus said, and Hannibal could have gutted Will then and there, the pleasures of the night before so readily forgotten in the wake of Will's reckless, irresponsible attitude towards the future of their eldest child. Though he'd had plenty of experience with murderous intent upon the world, traipsing across it without a shred of sense was hardly a life choice he wanted for his presently healthy family.

Really, Will!

But Hannibal held his disappointment in check, and braced his shoulders as he looked on both of his children who were now about to scurry off to their busy lives, leaving him to figure out how to best shape the one he now owned. Not wanting the day to start on ill feeling, he followed them out of the kitchen and into to the front foyer, where he offered their parting forms a request for peace that had been used by mothers for a millennia:

"What do you want for dinner?"

"JERK CHICKEN!" Mona immediately shouted, and Will spilled his coffee at the sudden outburst, nearly scalding his wrist. Hannibal could hear him curse behind him. "Really spicy this time, it's not proper jerk chicken if it doesn't make your eyes bleed!"

"I'll see what I can do," Hannibal promised.

He kissed them both goodbye as they opened the front door and disappeared into their world, leaving behind a dull ache in Hannibal's heart that he wasn't able to readily identify. With his coffee still in hand he headed back into his tiny kitchen. It really was far too small, a renovation on several points in the house was in order.

Their phone rang and it took Will a few moments to locate it back in the dining room, and from the boisterous, loud voice booming out of the earpiece it was clearly a call from Jack Crawford. Hannibal could hear every word the man said without the phone being on speaker, and Will held the phone aloft, protecting his sensitive eardrums. "Heya Will! Rise and shine! How's that heat holiday? You got all that Omega business ironed out? Heheh, I bet you do! Listen, if the ball and chain is feeling better, how do you feel about coming to work this morning? Got a head on crash with six fatalities and I could really use your shovelling skills!"

Will tucked the phone under his chin and nodded at Hannibal. "Jack wants me to go in. You feeling okay enough for me to go to work?"

"I'm perfectly fine, Will," Hannibal said, and meant it. He was still feeling slightly feverish but the nausea was gone as was its accompanying needy ache. All things considered, they were as back to normal as could possibly be. He eyed the appointment with Dr. Bedelia DuMaurier with some consternation, and wondered what his relationship with her was like. She was his lapdog in that other world, a cut out doll that was as deep as the thin layers he placed upon her, and no substitute for the complex man at his side.

"Yeah, I'm good to go," Will said, and Jack let out a happy whoop at this that made Will wince.

"Be ready in five, Graham, I'm bringing 'round the van!"

Will agreed and hung up, the phone neatly juggled in one hand before he placed it back in its charger. "Looks like we're back to our normal routines, whatever they are." Will placed his empty coffee cup in the sink and embraced Hannibal's waist with his arms, pulling him tightly close and giving him a very not chaste kiss now that they were once again alone. "You still taste gorgeous. You sure you'll be okay without me?"

"Not without you, no," Hannibal said, fervently kissing him back. "But a few hours are not such a tragedy."

~*~

It was mid-morning and he was on the highway when Mischa called, and Hannibal put her on speaker as he drove to the other side of Baltimore. "Good morning," he said to her, a giddy sensation in his breast at the thought of hearing her voice once again. If this was all he had for the rest of his life it would be enough, he knew, for her death had been the catalyst for so much tragedy. The resurrection of all that had been destroyed was still a murky miracle for him to fathom.

"I got bad news," Mischa said. "Some jackass groupie died in the drummer's bathroom. The cops are crawling all over the place, the news reporters are here, it's a damned mess. I hope you didn't have plans with Will today, he's riding with the coroner and you know how Jack is, he'll be chatting up everybody, they'll be here for hours. We're waiting on them right now. We're not sure how the idiot died, something to do with a sheep and a kick to the head that caved his brain in, and I don't know. Looks like you'll be busy once Will and Jack are done with him, I gave the sister of the dead guy your card when she asked if I knew of any funeral homes in the area. Hope you don't mind."

"Rock stars make for booming business on my end, Mischa," Hannibal said, and this seemed to be an adequate response if her snorting laugh was any indication. "I'll give Will a call and let him know to cart the body home when they are done with it."

"Dammit. I'm so sorry, Hannibal, I know this sucks. You guys are supposed to be having a nice romantic couple of days and this shit always gets in the way. How are you feeling? You looked really rough the last time I saw you, you weren't yourself at all. Hopefully Bedelia can tell you why they're getting worse, though you know what my theory is--With all this shit with Chilton happening you're under too much stress." She paused for a long moment, as though fighting to find the right words to say. To Hannibal's surprise when she spoke again it was in their native tongue, the heady lilt of Lithuanian coursing through the Bentley's speaker. To hear his beloved sister's voice like this, in exactly the way he remembered it...He choked down the feeling that threatened to well up and turned up the volume, not willing to miss one syllable.

_*"I was talking to Lady Murasaki. She's getting so old, Hannibal, but her mind is razor sharp. She wants to know when we're next going over to visit her in Paris and she really wants to see Marcus and Mona again. I think we need to make the trip and soon, I don't think we're going to have her for much longer."*_

Hannibal hesitated over this, remembering the smashed teacup he tossed to the floor, shattering all illusion of family, a gesture that Lady Murasaki had understood well, her shocked expression the last thing he remembered of her. His mother tongue rolled from him as he spoke it, the words creaking out of him with rusty lack of use. _*"We should talk about it over dinner. I was thinking of a pleasant family gathering, myself. With Will, the children. And you."*_

_*"You've been feeling sick and you want to go through all that trouble. Don't make anything too weird, you know I don't like that fancy crap. No fish Jell-O, honestly, Hannibal, what were you thinking?"*_

_*"I was thinking along the lines of a lamb stew,"*_ Hannibal replied.

_*"Yeah, sure. Tomorrow, six o'clock like usual? You're a doll, big brother. Shit, the cops want to talk to me now, and I'm getting stink eye from your old friend Jimmy Price. Dunno why the FBI is creeping around here, other than the fact the guy who died has tons of money."*_

Hannibal was curious. _*"Who was he?"*_

* _"Some creeper named Mason Verger."*_

Hannibal paused at this information. * _"Explains the FBI presence. From what I understand he's quite the nasty piece of work. I believe he was in the news recently for accusations of child abuse at some of his daycare facilities?"*_

Mischa scoffed at this. _*"The Verger clan doesn't run day cares! Where'd you get that information? Nah, this guy was really into drugs, big time, and he was involved in some gang styled murders a while back. I guess the FBI is here to see if it's an official hit, but it looks to me like stupidity."*_ There was a shout in the background and Mischa cursed. She switched back to English with fluid ease. "Coppers want their chat. Talk to you later, big brother. Good luck today. It's going to be a long one for the rest of us."

"Thank you, Mischa," he said, and he waited far longer than he should have to hang up the call after she said good-bye. Her conversation with him had left his heart singing, and he drove the remainder of the way to Dr. DuMaurier's office with a sense of peace he hadn't experienced in, if he examined it, his entire life. He fiddled with his CD player, calling up Goldberg's Variations and flooded the interior of the Bentley with its smooth, silken notes. His fingertips tapped in time to its cadence, soft matching leathers dancing upon one another. He hummed the notes as he made his way through an empty intersection, Dr. Bedelia DuMaurier's office set to come up on his right.

~*~  
He had parked the Bentley in a space on the street outside of her medical office, the smells of fresh coffee and sweets pouring out of the bakery next door to it. The Bedelia he knew was fond of such temptations, and Hannibal took it as a positive reinforcement that not too much had changed. He was fully expecting to find that same, icy creature he had tucked into his unfolding drama, like a canary kept as an advanced warning signal of danger. But as he entered her narrow, crowded office, it was clear that there was little of the Bedelia he knew lurking in any of its spotless corners. There were several other patients waiting, most in various stages of pregnancy, and it was with a sinking sense of horror that Hannibal realized, no Dr. DuMaurier was not his therapist, she was, in its stead, his Ob/Gyn. This suspicion was confirmed by the presence of a secretary and various examining rooms down the thin corridor, and the near imperceptible beeping of an ultrasound machine somewhere at the other end of that hallway's winding vein.

His first instinct was to flee, and he smoothed out the length of his black tie, giving a very pregnant fellow Omega male a pleasant nod before turning to do just that, when Bedelia herself suddenly shouted out over the head of her secretary: "Hannibal! You're early!"

How strange to find her so happy to see him, her face alight with a wide grin, and not one of restrained, frosty grimacing. She was still the same slender, beautiful perfection, this time cloaked in a white lab coat and sporting a stethoscope, which both looked out of place on her, as though she was wearing a costume. She waved him impatiently through, ignoring the protests of her secretary that she had other patients ahead of him.

She still had her impossible, golden coif, perfectly shaped and cascading in carefully arranged curls across and down her shoulders, the thin spindle of her tall spiked heels clicking on the industrial flooring. She led him into an examining room, and Hannibal instinctively placed his palm against his stomach, an anxiety brewing at the prospect of what about to take place eating at him. Though it was apparently necessary, the indignity of it was not something he found he could easily dismiss. He was only just getting used to this new formation of his body, aided in great strides thanks to Will's keen attention, and the clinical examination of it felt more like violation.

Bedelia was cheerful as she entered the room, tossing a disposable dressing gown at him. "You know the drill," she said, and gave him a smile that had a ridiculous amount of warmth and set him further ill at ease. "I know how you much hate this, and if you get really anxious at any point, you know I'll stop the examination immediately."

"You don't have to remind me, Bedelia."

She raised her brows and gave him a knowing look. "After coming to me for nearly eighteen years, I know a thing or two about you, Hannibal, and one of them is that you love to suffer in silence. As you recall, I was there when Marcus was born, a little ob/gyn residency student, scared out of her wits helping birth the first child of an Omega male, who was also terrified. You hid yours a lot better than I did. Not a hair out of place and barely a howl of discomfort. You didn't lose it until Will showed up an hour later, well after everything was over. A delayed reaction, the surgeon on call called it. You went absolutely ballistic, the nurse on the maternity ward was ready to call security. It was disappointing knowing it wasn't my efforts that helped you face the birth of your child with such stoicism. I thought it was my smooth delivery, but it was just you, holding your breath."

Hannibal darkly chuckled at this. "I suppose we all look for safe places upon which to fall."

The suggestion that she wasn't a safe haven was completely lost on this Bedelia, who busied herself with washing her hands and arranging the disposable tools of her trade in a small, metal, kidney shaped bin. "This armour you wear is thick, Hannibal, and when one piece falls off, the whole thing clatters in a heap to the ground." She paused in the doorway, shaking her head at the memory. "Poor Will. Both of his children handed to him in tears and terror. I'll give you a few moments to get undressed."

She left him alone in the examining room, shutting the door for privacy. Hannibal crushed the papery material in his grip, reluctant to put it on. She was far less the ice queen he once knew, but she still managed to creep under his skin in barbed little nicks that irritated him.

He took off his tie and jacket and began unbuttoning his shirt, getting a good view of the various medical posters lining the walls of the small examining room. This one was particularly geared towards the examination of the Omega gender, Hannibal realized, and with the curious scope of a surgeon he was able to pinpoint all similarities and differences of his now alien body with ease. If one wanted to be supremely technical, it was obvious that he was now female regardless of his masculine outward appearance. In that most classical of all Greek mythology he had become Tiresias, though he doubted this version of himself was ever to truly reclaim his full masculinity. Considering the pleasures he'd enjoyed the night before, he was sure he didn't want to, for as Tiresias himself had informed Zeus, 'Of ten parts, a man enjoys one only.'

He carefully folded his shirt and placed it on the chair next to the examining table, which was followed by trousers and underwear, the discarding of the latter revealing, again, the long, jagged scar across his lower abdomen, and the misshapen stretch of his skin that had once housed life. A knock at the door made him quickly put the paper gown on, and he sat on the examining table with a feeling of overexposure, one that he quelled with a mask of cold professionalism as Dr. DuMaurier stepped back into the room, and closed the door behind her. She didn't look up at him immediately, but instead was frowning as she went over his medical folder.

"You've been having fevers and nausea during your heats," she said. She flipped through past visits and results, of which there was a fairly large stack. "Are the symptoms alleviated with intercourse?"

"For a short time, yes."

"Which actually means no." She made a notation in her doctor's notes. "I'm suspecting it's the usual culprit, scarring in your fallopian tubes due to the trauma induced by Chilton's assault. As usual, I know you are going to say no to a salpingo-oophorectomy..."

"I will not consider it," Hannibal snapped.

"...So I won't go into all the details of why this would not only cure this particular ailment but render the need for invasive lacroscopic surgery every few years unnecessary. Nor am I going to remind you that it is a procedure that is fairly simple to implement, and that at your age you are already in the first stages of menopause, and yes you would continue to very much enjoy sex despite no longer having heats, which frankly many an Omega would be thrilled to have as an option. I will not need your explanation that this is about how Chilton stole your future children from you, which he did, and the last thing you want is something else taken from your body with or without your permission." She closed the beige medical folder with a delicate snap and impatiently tossed it on the small counter beside her. She fixed Hannibal in her sights with a familiar poignancy. "Other than feeling sick when you're in heat, how are you doing? I heard all about Chilton's impending release, the news stations are gorging themselves on it. Hannibal, no matter how much of a front you are putting up about it, I know you are anxious about this, and you know I am your friend. Please talk to me."

Hannibal felt a small tic at her easy proclamation that she was his 'friend'. That certainly hadn't been the case in that other world, one that was fast diminishing on the horizon as this one took up the fore. "I am fine, Bedelia. But thank you, for your concern."

Bedelia rolled her eyes and let out an exasperated sigh at this, for it was not the answer she wanted. She waved at the stirrups at the end of the examining table. "Let's find out what's going on, shall we?"

~*~

He had to admit, Bedelia's curt bedside manner aside, she was an excellent ob/gyn, a far cry from her sorry attempts at being a psychiatrist. She was wonderfully efficient, his examination rendered with only a hint of awkwardness, and it hardly lasted two minutes before he was told to redress and that the results would be back within a matter of days and, as the tenderness in his groin revealed all was as she suspected, he was to schedule an appointment to have an ultrasound on his way out. She was sure she could fit him in for the following week and would no doubt be in surgery within the month.  
  
He did as instructed, a gum chewing secretary taking his information and handing him back a small card with the time and date for his appointment on it. He placed the small card in the pocket of his eel skin wallet and paused at what he found there. He frowned at the images within the plastic partitions of the wallet, small photographs of two infants, both stained and ancient, well worn from being placed from one wallet into another, a daily talisman brought with him wherever he went. He left Bedelia's office still staring at the small images, the bump of pregnant bellies brushed against him as he passed a couple of her patients. It was cold and overcast when he got outside, his Bentley sitting in a thick puddle of black slush. He got into his car, with every intention of putting the key in the ignition and driving home, content to spend the rest of the day reading and catching up on what funeral arrangements needed to be done, and other assorted chores his other self performed throughout the day. But he found himself propping his wallet onto the steering wheel and staring at the two small photographs, at the smiling infant boy in pinstripe overalls, his almond shaped eyes offset from the camera. 'Had he been looking at me?' Hannibal had to wonder. The tiny infant girl, clearly a preemie, was dwarfed in a massive array of soft, pink fluffy fabrics, her doll's arm wrapped in gauze. She had survived, where others hadn't. Hannibal's family was whole. Intact.

And yet...How jealous he was of this other version of himself, who despite all tragedy managed to exist amongst such miracle! Hannibal pressed his palms to his stomach, wondering what it had been like, feeling them kicking in life within him, living with that for months, outlines of tiny feet and hands pressed against his skin. Had Will kissed that rounded stomach, had he had his fill on that experience, feasting on the pride that it was his doing that had filled that once empty womb? Will had been fed all that Hannibal's body could offer, and now--Now it was hollowed out, children he hadn't known now almost grown and ready to leave, a lurking hunger left in his belly for memories that didn't exist for this version of self. He had tempted God to stop him, had burned and slashed his way through life, pushing the boundaries open and making room for monsters. That mysterious deity had allowed it, had taken perverse delight in it, Hannibal was sure, and now it had it's ultimate revenge in giving its favourite demon everything it had ever wanted. For what greater cruelty is there for an unjust man than to receive a kind reward?

A wet drop hit his thigh and Hannibal raised his hand to his cheek, surprised to discover he was weeping. It sent a panic of feeling through him, images of his children and Will, the pleasurable night of Will's attentive eroticism, the smiling laughter of his sister, the resurrection of those who were long dead brought to life. Hannibal felt himself collapse under the weight of the kindness of physics.

These had to be lies, all of them, that he told himself, for the weight was unbearable, it was crushing, it was ripping his flesh to shreds.

In truth, he felt destroyed.

He was openly sobbing in the front seat of the Bentley when Bedelia stepped out of her office, intent on heading into the bakery next door to pick up a sweet treat. She stopped when she saw Hannibal, and with determined steps she approached the Bentley, her sharp knuckles rapping loudly against the driver's side window. Surprised by her intrusion, Hannibal composed himself and reluctantly rolled it down, allowing in a thick waft of her expensive perfume. The wallet was still open in front of him, and he closed it with one hand and tossed it onto the passenger seat beside him. "Bedelia, I am fine," he said, and attempted to start the car.

She reached in and nimbly plucked the keys from the ignition and opened the driver's door. "I knew this was going to happen."

"Bedelia, give me back my keys."

Like that other, icy self serving creature, this Bedelia was not to be daunted, though her delivery was far less carefully constructed and bordered on indelicate. "Out of the car, Hannibal. It seems I just saw my last patient of the day. Dr. Sutcliffe can take over the rest of them for the afternoon, his schedule isn't that busy and he owes me one anyway." She tapped an impatient foot, the length of her thin heel near invisible against the black puddle she was standing in as Hannibal hesitated. "Come on, upstairs we go. That drink isn't going to pour itself."  
  
~*~

This Dr. Bedelia DuMaurier most certainly did like her creature comforts, but they were far less elaborate or controlled than that Other who Hannibal felt he had only thinly understood. This Bedelia was yet a further enigma, one with latent snobbery he could relate to and yet there was a coarseness beneath it that occasionally spilled out. Her large, open spaced condominium situated above her work held nothing of the stuffy, office decor that had decorated the home of her antithesis. She was happy here, Hannibal realized, tucked into a place where she lived amongst her patients and their files, drawing joy out of the busy bustle of the uptown street outside of her large, picture window. She hadn't had a family, instead dedicating her life to her work, travelling to distant, poor countries every July and August where she assisted in hospitals that were nothing more than pup tents. No children of her own, for she had a universe of them by her hand, evidence of this wallpapering the massive wall that went from the ground floor entrance right up to the ceiling. Tiny prints of feet or palms, each with a name and a date written neatly in Bedelia's handwriting on the bottom left corner of each hospital ID card. There looked to be close to a thousand of them.

"And here we are," Bedelia said, moving from her large, spacious kitchen that was more atrium than a place for gathering, two cocktail glasses balanced in her grip. This Bedelia was no fan of wine, and was more of a gin and tonic girl. Hannibal took the offering with polite grace.

"It was not my intention to put you out like this, Bedelia," Hannibal said. He took a sip of his cocktail and inwardly remarked that it was perfect. "I am truly sorry."

Bedelia flopped onto her sofa and propped her feet, now encased in ridiculous, huge bright blue bunny slippers, onto her coffee table, the cocktail held aloft. "Donald is always taking holidays right when I want or need to schedule mine. He has an uncanny sixth sense about it. Any time I can ruin his day is the right time." She took a near gulp of her drink and focused on Hannibal over its rim. "You don't really think Chilton is going to go after your family, do you?"

Hannibal frowned over the cocktail, both bemused and annoyed that Bedelia had grossly missed the mark over what had upset him. "There are promises that he is cured. I would not be so certain, the insane can be highly manipulative. They are very good at hiding their most dangerous thoughts and proclivities. I'm curious as to what your opinion is on the matter."

"Mine?" Bedelia raised her brow.

"Yes. You were the doctor who assisted me in the aftermath of the attack, and as I am your friend, as I was then, I imagine the thought of him going free fills you with a likewise anxiety."

"So you are anxious," Bedelia said.

"I am anticipatory," Hannibal replied, and sipped at his cocktail. Was that a hint of fresh mint?

Bedelia's word were carefully measured. "If you would like my most frank and honest opinion, it would be thus: Dr. Frederick Chilton is a crazy son of a bitch who I would not hesitate to shoot on sight. Right here." Bedelia pressed a well manicured nail at the centre of her forehead. "Is that clarity enough on the matter, Hannibal?"

"So you, like many others, believe he is incapable of cure."

"I believe he is a madman who tore apart my friend and left him and his newly born baby for dead in an empty hospital room. He nearly killed Mona, he butchered you so badly he nicked her arm with his scalpel and I had to put stitches on the flesh of a preemie. I have fantasized for near a decade of the things I would do to him to make him suffer and I hate to admit it, but I take great pleasure in those thoughts."

Hannibal couldn't help but smile at this unexpected openness. He near grinned as he took another sip of the cocktail, liking the way it was taking the tense edge off of the afternoon. "I rather like this frankness of yours, Bedelia. It suits you far better."

Bedelia sighed. "How is Will taking all of this?"

Hannibal chose his words on that subject very carefully. "As one could expect. He is concerned."

"As I recall, the last time you were forced into this kind of protracted stress, he folded like a paper doll and left you and your children for two months while he went on a suicidal drunken bender in the swamps of Louisiana. You were still recovering from the attack, Hannibal. You could barely walk, let alone take care of two children, and if it wasn't for Mischa floating you that loan you would have lost everything. I've never understood how you could let him back into your bed after that. I couldn't have forgiven that kind of betrayal."

"Extreme events often bring out the worst in us," Hannibal said. "I have seen Will at his lowest and the understanding we have come to have with one another is woven tightly by our mutual, tragic history. He would never harm me like that again."

Bedelia swirled her fingertip in her martini and watched the tiny whirlpool it made intently. "I wish I had your confidence. But, he is your husband, and you did choose him over other options. And it's not like you didn't have plenty." She gave him a smirk over the rim of the glass. "Has Agent Jimmy Price contacted you yet?"

Hannibal frowned, not at all sure he liked this connotation. "I'm sorry, what do you mean?"

"Don't play coy with me, Hannibal, I know how close the two of you became when Will ran like a frightened rabbit off into the bushes. It's no secret he's always been on the periphery, peeking in beyond the perfect white picket fence you've erected up as a rather ineffective barricade."

"I suppose it should be no surprise that the FBI has been keeping a close watch on me over the years," Hannibal said, without humour.

Bedelia laughed at this. "Serial killers get less attention. I see you've finished. Would you care for another? I do have all afternoon."

Hannibal gave her a terse smile, though it was at the thought of what she'd said over any actual need to leave. He was sorely tempted, but he found himself declining. "I have dinner to make," he said by way of excuse. "My exceptionally fussy family wants to imagine this winter day as a holiday in the Caribbean. Jerk chicken, one more of a jerk than the others, as per Mona's request."

Bedelia actually snorted at this. "Like that kid needs more fire to add to that temper of hers. When I think of all the times I had to peel her off of the floor when she was having one of her little breakdowns..."

Hannibal faltered at this information. He thought about what she had told him, that he had been on his own for two months, that he'd been physically incapacitated...

"You took care of my children," he said, aloud, disbelieving it.

"You're damn right I did. Every other weekend until Marcus was thirteen." She sighed, and placed her martini glass on her coffee table, following Hannibal to the top of her stairs. To his shock she embraced him in a tight hug, and he didn't know what to do with the genuine emotion emitting from her, the unexpected kindness of it leaving his arms open to dead air.

"Take care of yourself, if you need anything, let me know."

"I will, Bedelia." He sidestepped her awkwardly, hating the way she looked at him as though he was in need of steadying. Apparently there was something far worse than Bedelia's selfish apathy. Her compassion was unbearable.

 

 

 


	5. Havilland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will goes on a run with Jack. Has a fascinating conversation with one FBI Agent Jimmy Price. Teacups have been reformed--Now what, Hannibal?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really am having fun with steamy alien sex, that's all I can say. Just be happy no one is an octopus...Or a duck...
> 
> This story is creeping away from crack, other than the Omegaverse parameters--Hopefully, an injection of Will's Dad can fix that! (Why yes, he does sound just like Peter Weller, why do you ask? ;P)

 

 

YOU ARE NOW ENTERING GATE #12  
chapter five

 

"And *that*, my friend, is why you wear a helmet when riding a motorcycle on the highway. Better use the cookie spatula on that one. See if you can keep the brains separate from the eyes." Jack gave Will a good natured, bruising pat on his back. Will stared at the gory scene with a sickening well in the pit of his stomach, the slushy highway wreaking havoc on his ability to scoop up what remains he could and bag them. As the coroner's assistant, which Will had been for the past twenty years, it was his job to bag and tag, making sure all remains were picked up and brought back to the basement examining room at the Maryland Hospital. Jack Crawford, being the local medical examiner, would go over the initial findings and the remains and it was his report that was the last word on cause of death. In this case it was fairly obvious--Massive force trauma to the head, or what was left of it. Will grimly set to work, using an actual kitchen spatula to shovel pieces of bone and grey matter into a clear, labelled baggie.

His disposable white onesie kept getting splattered with slush, and he was now soaked up to his knees, the thick paper sticking to his jeans beneath it like wet tissue. Jack was busy chatting with one of the traffic cops who'd arrived first at the scene, the other three bodies in the small cruiser already bagged up and waiting in the coroner's white van. It seemed a race on the highway had been the culprit in this instance, the cruiser trying to outgun the motorcycle, clipping the back tire and sending him flying and the cruiser into an ugly jack-knife. No one was wearing a seatbelt and the three teen joyriders were tossed around the interior of the car like popping corn in a microwave bowl. They were all good and tenderized by the time the car stopped moving.

Will finished up the last of his scooping and was ready to go when Jack got a call on his cell phone, interrupting his long chat with the traffic cop. This Jack was one hell of a people person, he was always stopping and chatting with someone, making what could have been a far more efficient workday stretch into extra hours. Jack laughed loudly at what was said on the other end, which quickly descended into a low chuckle. He shook his head, and hung up the cell, his meaty hand waving amicably at Will. "Yo! Graham! We got another one! Another brainiac, if you can believe it, so wipe that shovel off!"

Will stood up, his knees angrily creaking against both his awkward position and the damp cold that had crept into his joints. His body was long abused in this way, spending many a day and night in all types of weather, for hours at a time in awkward positions. He had to wonder what the motivation was for that other Will Graham to continue doing a menial job like this day in and out, never seeking out more either from ambition or boredom. Perhaps he could say the same for Hannibal, who had never gone beyond the realm of the dead, his business not as booming as they had expected all those years ago before Mona was even conceived. Will had gone over bank statements that morning and there were several bills that were in arrears, and from the pattern he'd seen they had poorly managed their finances. They used a common financial coping mechanism, where they'd pay one outstanding bill while another remained overdue. It was a cycle that was destined to keep them forever in debt.

He wasn't sure where the leak in their finances was coming from, but it seemed to stem from a newly built crematorium that Hannibal had invested in a couple of years ago after the original one suffered serious damage due to a small explosion. It hadn't been insured as part of the business due to the fact it hadn't been up to code. It was also offsite from the main property and not considered part of the main business, the end result being they had to suck up the loss. They hadn't retained enough clients in the interim to cover the costs of the new crematorium yet, and at the rate they were going the expense of running it was going to break them.

They finished up the scene, the traffic cop sent on his way with a promise from Jack to give him a call concerning a new coffee place nearby on the guy's run, a quirky little dump that also served pizza. It was increasingly strange to Will to find this Jack Crawford was not the burly, angry bulldog who relentlessly used up whatever and whoever he could in a bid to save lives. This Jack was easy going and stress free, cracking jokes along the way as they drove their quarry onto the highway, ready to drop them off at the hospital morgue where they were to wait until Jack went through his list of autopsies for that day.

At least, that had been the plan. They were now to go and pick up a body at a hotel next door to The Opera House, where a junkie had done something unpleasant with a sheep and earned a fatal kick in the head for it. "It's just a pick up, the FBI's forensics team has already gone over the scene, so that's not so bad. It's always nice when those guys do the grunt work for us." Jack shifted uncomfortably in his seat and shook his head at the sudden snow squall that blanketed the highway. "Means we've got a long day ahead, though. Lots of paperwork for you, Graham, hope you don't get writer's cramp."

"At least it'll be in a warm, cozy office," Will said, and shook the damp leg of his jeans out under the heat vent in the van in a sorry attempt to dry them. "I'll give Hannibal a call when we get there and let him know not to wait for me for dinner."

Jack fiddled with his radio, settling on a maudlin country station. The windshield wipers struck at the wet snow with squeaking effort, a sweep of obscurity and clarity giving Will's subconscious an unwanted sense of deja vu. "So that creep's getting out," Jack said, his jaw set as he stared at the road ahead. "You doing okay with that?"

Will frowned. "We're coping," he said.

"I'm talking about you, Will." Jack tore his eyes away from the road for a second to give Will a good, solid, old fashioned bulldog glare. That familiar shiver coursed through Will once again. "You didn't do so good the last time. Crawled into the bottom of a bottle of Wild Turkey for two months and parked your ass on your dad's porch. You were a real prick, I damn near fired you. If it wasn't for Hannibal calling me bawling on the phone, begging me to let you keep your job..." Jack trailed off and he shook his head, a low sigh escaping him. "You went motherfucking crazy town, left behind your sick Omega and those babies to fend for themselves...There's a lot of reasons why I shouldn't still call you my friend, Will."

Jack rubbed his meaty palm across his chin and along the back of his neck, as though rubbing out an old, lingering ache. "But I also know that what happened is partly my fault. I let you stay on the job, and I should never have listened to you, I should have forced you on leave. I get it. Little twenty-six year old piece of puke, going through that kind of trauma alone, no sleep thanks to Hannibal's nightmares every night, a hurt little tiny baby just newly home and you were scared to death to hold her in case she broke. That little firecracker daughter of yours fit in the palm of my hand, remember that?"

Will didn't, of course, but he could easily visualize it. A fragile new life and its massive responsibility. The terror of every cough, every struggle for breath. The constant, lingering threat of violence.

"You kept seeing your spouse on the examining table, in your head you were picking up bits of your baby at every accident scene. Just too much death too soon and too close to home. You tried blocking it all out with the booze and all that did was make it worse. Started getting all paranoid with Hannibal, wouldn't let him out of the house, you'd get all wound up if he dared to buy groceries or take Marcus to the park, you'd start arguing, and damn, Will, you were nasty, the way you screamed at him. Then one night you called me up drunk out of your fool head to tell me that you had to leave, you were too scared you were going to hurt him. No matter what, that was a shit thing to do, Will, leaving him alone like that, so close after everything that happened.

But I take some responsibility. I did that to you, I short circuited your head. I still feel real bad about that."

Will felt unbearably uncomfortable, Jack's residual pain washing over his empathy in waves. "It's in the past, Jack," Will assured him. "You don't have to worry about me, I'm not going to do that to my family ever again."

"You're damned fucking right you're not, I'll kill you first." He sighed and gave Will a light punch in the shoulder, shoving him playfully and easing the tense mood into a slightly friendlier one. "Look, you ever feel like you're going unstable again, you tell me right away and I'll have you on extended leave so fast I'll be driving this van through your front door to drop you off--Got it?"

"I get it," Will said, and he was grateful for this version of Jack, for even if the original stressor no longer was in play in their memories, there was the fact that he was dealing with a very different sort of Hannibal than Jack was used to. Will was long braised in trauma at this point, and one more splash of it wasn't about to make any difference.

"FBI Agent Jimmy Price is going to be on the scene," Jack said, and Will nodded blandly at this, an action that made Jack raise a brow. "Did you hear me, Will? Price is going to be there."

Will shrugged. "And?"

"Oh, it's like *that* now." Jack grinned, but Will didn't get the joke. "Mr. Will Graham you must have had a very nice little heat holiday if that's your attitude. Well. it has been ten years since you staked your claim and gave the guy a black eye." Jack shook his finger in Will's face. "Which he *deserved*, there's no faulting you for that!"

Jimmy Price? Will made a face, his perceptions hitting a blank wall. What the hell was Jack intimating here?

Will's cell phone rang and he answered it without checking, confident it was either Hannibal or one of their children. But it was like the static on the other end was intimidation enough, and Will actually clutched the dashboard as the uneven, dark gravel voice curled out of the phone like thick cigarette smoke and wound its way inside of Will's head.

"Hey there. Son."

Will kept the phone in a white knuckled grip. How long had it been since he'd heard from Ezra Graham? Twenty years? Twenty four? They hadn't exactly left one another on the best of terms, his fury at Will joining the FBI still a sore spot between them. He had to wonder what kind of man his father was in this universe, after all he had the softening effects of grandchildren, and Will had proven himself to eventually be a solid family man. He swallowed deeply, ignoring Jack's constant, curious looks at him through the corner of his eye, the road ahead as dreary and grey as the hope he had for any kind of reconciliation. "Dad," Will said, and Jack raised a brow and let out a low whistle at this. "H-how are you?"

"Cut the crap, Will. Small talk has never been our thing. I hear that asshole who messed with your Babydoll is getting a walk and I'm just making sure you don't do another runner."

Will was beginning to get impatient with this past version of himself, for he was far from unstable at this point, he was wholly who he was supposed to be. Hannibal had made sure of that. "Dad, I'm not going to do that, we're fine."

"You suck at bullshit as much as you do small talk, son. I'm at the cottage in Virginia, thinking of stopping by tomorrow night for dinner. Mischa said Babydoll's got a big spread planned, couldn't miss that."

"This is the first I've heard of it," Will said, annoyed.

"Yeah. Well, communication hasn't always been your forte." Ezra Graham let out a low gravel growl at this, a familiar judgement dripping from every intonation of his thick Louisiana drawl and putting Will on edge. "See you tomorrow, son. Give Babydoll a nice kiss from me. One right on the mouth."

He hung up and Will felt shattered, the prospect of seeing his father in any capacity filling him with a sense of impending dread. It was bad enough his son Marcus retained so much of his grandfather's characteristics, now he was going to be forced to choke down food while he had to deal with the resonating energy of both of them at the same table. Not to mention the issue Hannibal now presented, especially since Will knew damned well why his father was calling him 'Babydoll'.

"Shit's hitting the fan all over for you," Jack said, shaking his head as he stared ahead at the worsening road. Will prayed for a blizzard, anything to keep his father from driving up from Virginia and sitting at their dining room table with the entirety of his family. All that intense energy, piled tight into that small little room.

"Bomb's away," Will said. Beside him, Jack whistled in imitation of one, grinning as he puffed out his cheeks, mimicking an explosion.

~*~  
The body was easy enough to cart away, and at this point there weren't any surprises left for Will, so the image of a freshly dead Mason Verger, his head caved in on the left side, was not the shock it should have been. The cause of death was obvious enough, the perpetrator marching back and forth on its hooves across the hotel room, nibbling on the carpet as it mistook it for grass. Mason Verger had been counting sheep. The forensics team from the FBI were long finished and since this was set to become an accidental death rather than a homicide, there was little for the officers now milling about the scene to do. Will sighed and fought the urge to flop down on the couch next to a glass coffee table covered in cocaine. A chicken walked past him, and a monkey took a shit on a cushion before leaping away. An animal control officer was rounding up the various feathered, hoofed and clawed critters crowding the room.

Jack sighed as he stood beside Will. "Is this what I think it is?"

"Yup," Will said, making a list of the various animals in his notes. "A diddling Dr. Doolittle."

Jack rolled his eyes as Mason Verger's body was zipped up in the usual black body bag and carted off on a gurney. His buddies in forensics were dropping him off in the van for him. "We got one hell of a busy night waiting for us back in the basement," Jack said. He let out a small curse and gave the forensics guys transporting the body a quick, friendly smile and a nod. "I better go downstairs with the body, make sure it goes on the right tier, these guys don't look too experienced. They're churning them out these days at the FBI, and I'm stuck being their extra credit. Remember how they didn't tack down that drowned guy properly? Rolled all over the bottom of the van, had nothing but pea soup to look at by the time we got him onto the slab. You coming?"

A familiar face was amongst the crowd, and Jack gave Will a knowing nod. "Just don't go giving him a shiner to match the last one. If you're going to kick him in the teeth, make sure you got a good Alpha rage going on first, that way he can't charge you with assault. Fucking Betas. Always messing in other people's shit."

He headed downstairs, while Will remained in the room, watching FBI Agent Jimmy Price with careful consideration. Price wasn't in forensics, that was obvious, and from the way he carried himself he was more film noir gumshoe than geeky team science. He noticed Will was staring at him, and he placed his hands on his hips, spreading his beige trench coat wide before giving Will a cheerful wave. "Creep's got the whole zoo in here," Jimmy said to him. "Won't be just bestiality we can add to the list, I think that goat is underage."

Will noticed the way Jimmy was giving him a cool once over, assessing every movement he made, putting it in his usual, relentless calculations and not letting one thing slip from his observation. "Been a while, Jimmy," Will managed to say. "How's the eye?"

"Healed up great!" Jimmy said, pointing to it. "For a while there, I thought there was going to be some permanent blood vessel damage, but it ended up correcting itself eventually. Kind of like a few other things."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. Like how our man Chilton can just turn on the switch to sanity, just like that! I mean, the human mind, right? Real miraculous thing."

Jimmy kept his hands on his hips as he stepped closer to Will, his head down and bobbing sideways as he brought Will into his confidence. "Look, we're never going to like each other, but you got to be on board with me on this. You had your suspicions then and I have mine now. How does a wet noodle of a dweeb like Chilton manage to turn into a vicious serial killer, with no apparent provocation save he was taking some heavy doses of hallucinogens? The son of a bitch was a podiatrist, for fuck's sake. What's a guy with a big enough passion for feet to make it a career doing messing with scalpels and c-sections?" Jimmy chewed his bottom lip and gave Will a hooded look. "Been a lot of years, Graham, but I gotta wonder--You still thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Yeah," Will said, all the little puzzles slipping into place, the pendulum of his empathy barely swinging before he'd had his answer. "Dr. Abel Gideon."

"Bingo was his name-o."

"What are your thoughts?"

"From what I understand, Dr. Chilton was spinning out of reality on shrooms, which he claims were slipped in his tea, but he couldn't remember by who. When he was brought in we found mescaline, LSD, bennies and E. coursing through his system. He was speaking the language of the angels, all right. We could barely get a statement." Jimmy pressed his lips tight together, thinking on it. "Dr. Gideon is set to retire this year. What could be a better way to end one's illustrious career than on a truly miraculous note? Oh, and a nice bonus, and possible book deals, the usual. His retirement package is really something, there's two publishing houses fighting over him right now for his exclusive story, I hear the deal's up to seven figures."

The subject was a tough one to broach, but Will had to get his facts, especially since it was clear that Jimmy had a clearer insight into what happened than anyone else. Will braced himself as he leaned forward, putting Jimmy into his confidence. "Just tell me again what you saw, right from the beginning. It still doesn't make sense to me."

"Fifteen years of repetition, Will."

"Yeah, I know, but humour me, okay?"

Jimmy sighed, glancing around him at the cops still wandering around the hotel room, some of them just idly chatting. "Hey! Dolarhyde!" Will shook as the familiar face looked up from a small crowd of beat cops and gave Jimmy a heads up. Jimmy gave a sweeping motion with his arm. "Get this place cleared out, only essential personnel!"

The hotel room began to empty, and Jimmy tucked Will into a corner of the room, near the little kitchen en suite which had a thick pile of filthy, moldy dishes laying in it. "Hannibal wasn't due for another few weeks, right? I was in the hospital getting treated for a stab wound to my thigh, some son of a bitch gang banger wannabe thinking he's getting his Alpha posture on by attacking an agent. Takes all kinds. It was just a flesh wound, nothing serious and I wanted to walk it off, but the big boss Tobias wanted his report, and we all know it's so you can't claim time off if you got medical attention. Anyway, they were finished with me, and you know how confusing that hospital is. I couldn't find the damned exit. I ended up in an entirely different wing of the hospital, which I quickly figured out was maternity. Hannibal was in a room off to the side and I noticed him sitting there alone and we chatted for a few moments, nothing special. I just wanted to know how to get out of the hospital. He told me he was there to get tested for preeclampsia, and he was kind of nervous. I guess you were on a corpse run at the time, he said you were supposed to stop by later in the day."

"I'd just started doing field work," Will said, mostly to himself. The home video stated he'd taken the FBI course when Mona had been conceived, and eight months later it made sense that he'd be pushing forward in his ambition.

"Anyway, I told Hannibal he looked the picture of health to me, and he smiled real sweet and I walked away. I still think of how fresh faced he looked, so young and speaking with that soft accent. He sat up in that bed looking like he was holding onto a beach ball, he was so cute." Jimmy shrugged at Will's frown at this. "Hey, I was only just in my mid thirties, and I still don't get to meet too many sweet, delicate twenty-something Omegas in my line of work. I stopped for a coffee at the canteen along the way, chatted with the nurses at their station for a bit. Saw a couple of newborns getting wheeled down the hall in those little clear plastic incubators on wheels they use. I was kind of reluctant to leave, I don't get to see happy shit like that, you know? So I guess I had my fill of procreative positivity and I was just about to leave the side door Hannibal had told me was the exit when the screaming started."  
  
"And that's when you ran back to Hannibal's room?"

"It was a fucking freak show, not going to lie, Graham. I wasn't gone five minutes. Ran into that room with a bunch of nurses ahead and behind me, and all I could see was red pouring out of that gash in his stomach. Chilton was standing beside the bed, staring at his hands like he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Tears just rolling down his face, he looked like was going to drop. It didn't take much for me to take him down, and I cuffed him and called it in." Jimmy let out a weary sigh as he thought on it, the memory a difficult one for him to revisit, though Will was sure he did so, and often. "There were a bunch of people working on Hannibal, stabilizing him. One doctor in particular I remember because he seemed too calm for what had happened, knew exactly what to do, calling up surgery, assessing the wound...I wouldn't have thought it weird until I found out the doctor in question was Dr. Gideon."

Will shrugged at this. "It's a big hospital, it could be coincidence. The fact he was present for the event is all the more reason for him to have taken on Chilton as a patient, he would have been an interesting study to him due to his own personal involvement."

"Gideon's a psychiatrist, and his spouse was well past her child bearing years, even then. What was he doing on the maternity ward?"

Will smiled. "Looking for an exit?"

"I don't buy it. Not only was he on a floor that was not part of his expertise, he was in an entirely different building. That hospital's mental ward is in an addition across the street."

Will chewed on this, thinking on what he knew of that other, shockingly violent Abel Gideon who had torn apart a nurse with nothing more than Chilton's unwitting suggestion to him that he was the Chesapeake Ripper. Seeing such a scenario turned on its head would not be out of character for either of them, save for the fact that Fred is no murderer. Gideon was able to expand on his violence because he already had that inclination in him. You can't put what isn't already possible into someone's consciousness, that was one lesson Hannibal had taught him well.

"Hannibal has always said there was another, darker figure in the room, one that seemed to be guiding Chilton. We weren't able to rely on that part of his testimony, even if I do still think it's relevant. Hannibal was in and out of consciousness, he remembers hearing Chilton weeping as he stood beside the bed, but other than that dark figure behind him, nothing else. All he could focus on was the baby, which is understandable."

"Hannibal's testimony got Chilton put away," Will said, thinking on the court transcripts.

"Well, it makes sense, Chilton's in the room, there's blood everywhere and a hysterical, butchered Omega. Just the fact he was there with his hands dripping blood and Hannibal saw him was proof enough for the jury."

Will envisioned the scene with difficulty, and the thought of Hannibal in such a vulnerable position, abused and injured in such a way, made an unexpected Alpha growl course through him, his angry feelings making Jimmy Price take a step back.

He could see the room, crowded with nurses, Dr. Gideon at the fore, inspecting the damage done. Will closed his eyes as he mentally wiped the room of all but Hannibal, patiently waiting in silence in his hospital bed. A Hannibal who was significantly younger. Smaller. Inexperienced. This Hannibal had never harmed anyone, he was shy, soft spoken. His affinity for the dead was for their passage and not their creation. The Hannibal of this universe was free of tragedy until that moment.

He did not deserve what happened to him.

_"I walk into the room, and I see him there, the rounded shape like the contours of the Earth. I see moons and constellations around it. I do not move in this world without the aid of a separate force of gravity upon me. It is the dark figure that stands behind me, whispering in my ear, telling me I must cut into the Earth and free all who are enslaved upon it. But I hesitate. I have no will to cut into my celestial home. I can hear the whisper of stars and darkness but it holds no real claim over me. I am as much an observer as the sweet, sleeping form in the bed, who has the Earth tucked up against his belly._

_This is not my design._

_I step out from behind him. I am disappointed, but I have filled him with enough suggestion and hallucinatory drugs to make him believe whatever I want. My plan shall reach fruition, and my acts will be infamous, my success revered. I pick up the scalpel, and cut deep into that taut belly, keeping my face in shadows as my puppet stands beside me, well in the light. The blood pours out like a freed ocean, a tiny arm spills from the slit orifice and I am victorious. I am death and life combined. This is my design._ "

Will opened his eyes, focusing once again on the present. Jimmy Price stared at him as though he'd found a new level of crazy that Will Graham hadn't shown him yet.

"Where was the scalpel?" Will asked.

"You really drifted off there, Graham, you sure you're okay?" Jimmy glanced at the open door of the hotel room, the scene mostly emptied at this point. A cleaning woman had parked a soapy bucket and rubber gloves in the hall and popped her head in the door at intervals, sending anxious looks into the room. "Funny you should mention that. It always sat wrong with me. The scalpel was placed on the side set of drawers on the opposite side of the bed where Chilton was standing. It was just neatly put there. How was Chilton, in the crazy state was in, going to be able to function enough to do something like that? You'd think he'd let it clatter to the floor or worse still, leave it in the victim, but no. On the dresser, on the opposite side of where he was standing."

Jimmy cast another glance at the door of the hotel room, and when he was sure they had no way to be overheard, he leaned in close to Will. "Listen, I know you've heard a lot of talk over the years that make it sound like I made the moves on your Omega when you were having your breakdown in Louisiana. Not gonna lie, I got worried and checked up on him and the kids, sure I did. Yeah, it was all a real mess, and maybe he did lean on me a little more than I should have let him, seeing as how he was still officially attached to his Alpha and all. I just gotta make it clear to you somehow, I never fucked your Omega. First of all, how could I? He was still recovering from the assault, and secondly, he had a fragile newborn baby to take care of. His sister and one of his friends helped him out best they could, taking Marcus to give him a break, but there were still big gaps that you leaving left behind. I went around every other night, sure, spent a few weekends there, too, when I could get away from work. I slept on the couch. He'd get scared alone at night with the kids, the house isn't exactly the most secure of places, though I guess having to run a gauntlet of coffins is enough of a deterrent for most burglars." Jimmy dipped his head and kicked at the stained carpet with the heel of his shoe. "It was all over the second Ezra dropped you off on the front porch, anyway. I watched Hannibal open that door and there you were, a contrite Alpha in its frame, and he just crumpled into your arms and that was it. I'll admit, I was getting too close, I was damned jealous after that. I stuck around long after my welcome."

"Six years worth," Will ventured, and to his surprise Jimmy nodded at this. Will frowned, thinking on the timing of it. "It was at Mona's sixth birthday. That's when I hit you." There was no need for a pendulum to swing in his mind as to the reason why, for he could envision the scenario that would lead to such a blow with ease. Mona, washed off in the upstairs bathroom, and then left to toddle back down and into the kitchen to open presents and eat cake, not in that order. Jimmy, sneaking upstairs and asking how things were going, if Will's drinking was becoming a problem again, if he had to be concerned. Years of pent up expectation coming to a head as he stole a passionate kiss, one that just might have been returned.

The very thought of someone else's lips on Hannibal's made Will's hands clench into tight fists, a low growling coursing through him that was purely instinctual. Jimmy Price held up his hands. "Hold onto your hormones, no need to go posturing your aggression at me, Alpha male, that was ten years ago, and I've respected Hannibal's wishes and stayed away since. If you ever wondered where Mona gets that temper of hers, take a look in the damned mirror."

A horn loudly beeped outside the hotel room window, and Will glanced out of it, seeing the white coroner van parked on the sidewalk below. "I got to go," Will said, stripping off his white paper onesie, then snapping off his latex gloves. He tossed them into a clear plastic bag and tied it off before putting it in a trash can in the corner. "I'd say it was good to see you again, Jimmy, but I'm not sure I'd be telling the truth."

"Yeah," Jimmy said, and he was genuinely sad at this. "Tell Hannibal I miss his cooking. Nobody makes beef heart taste that good."

~*~

It was dark when Will was dropped off at home, Mason Verger's body released and brought in through the back entrance that led to the basement of the Lecter Funeral Home. He transported the body in and slid it in its black plastic bag casing onto one of the metal gurneys in the chilled room. He covered it with a starched, bleached white sheet and left it there, turning off the lights as he stepped out of the formaldehyde scented space, the chemical burning the back of his throat.

"At least you guys are getting some business," Jack said when Will came out to return the coroner's gurney, hauling it into the back of the van with grunting effort and slamming the delivery doors of the van shut. Jack nodded from his driver's side window, at the back entrance of the house where Will had stepped out. "The Vergers got tons of money. Tell Hannibal to sell them the most expensive coffin he's got."

Will shrugged at this. "They'll probably opt for cremation, most people do these days."

"Sculpting the dead is a dying art," Jack said, and loudly howled at his own lame joke. "See you at the hospital tomorrow morning, Will. Got six cases waiting in the fridge for us first thing."

Jack drove off, and Will watched him go, the exhaustion of the day catching up with him. He entered through the back door and went up a set of stairs leading into the chapel, which was gloomy, lit solely by a few strategically placed night lights plugged into sockets in the walls. The large, central doors creaked as he opened them, a loud click announcing his presence. He was met with smells from the kitchen and he checked his watch to view the time. Nine o'clock at night. He'd had a fourteen hour day.

He carefully closed the chapel doors behind him and headed for the kitchen, where two familiar voices hit him like a slap, the cheerful giggling in answer to Hannibal's deeper intonations a sound Will couldn't equate with living reality. He was hesitant as he journeyed down the narrow hallway leading to the kitchen island, his body shaking as he took in the image of Hannibal and Abigail fussing over a piece of cake, Abigail's fork digging into the chocolate icing with fervent, happy relish.

Will was frozen where he stood. She looked exactly the same, her face blushed with freckles, her long, dark hair parted in the middle and cascading free down the length of her back. She was wearing a pair of fuzzy pyjamas with blue clouds printed on them, and her feet were bare. Will found himself rooted, unable to move. Such dreams were made to destroy, Will thought, and he fought the urge not to weep.

"Hey, Mr. Graham," Abigail said.

"H-Hello, Abigail." Will stepped closer, his feet leaden as though trapped in dream. How often he had spoken to her after death, had ruminated over the choices they had made and Hannibal's narcissistic tantrum had brought them to tragedy. Yet, here she was, healthy and whole, the smashed teacup rejoined, and Hannibal, her murderer, was standing opposite her, licking chocolate icing off of a spoon and laughing at some witticism she'd said that Will didn't hear.

"Doesn't Mona want a piece?" Hannibal asked her, and Abigail shook her head, finishing the last of the cake on her plate and picking up the remaining crumbs with wet fingertips.

"She said she's on a diet."

"There's no need for that, she's a growing girl who is hardly sedentary. Tell her to come down for cake, and if she doesn't want it, you can have her portion as well. You are rather too thin for my liking, Abigail. Your father owns a butcher shop, surely you are not at a loss for a good meal."

"He hasn't been cooking at all since this whole Chilton thing," she said, shrugging, a nonchalance about the suggestion of violence still a major part of her personality. "He's handing out flyers at the shop now. He getting up a petition to send Chilton to prison, since he's now considered sane."

"I'm not sure that's how the legal system works," Will countered. "He was found to be sick and now he's supposedly well. That decision was based on the fact he didn't know what he was doing. I can appreciate your father's efforts, but I don't think he's going to be successful."

"I've tried telling him that." Abigail gave them both another one of her dismissive shrugs. "He doesn't listen, especially now that he's drunk all the time."

Hannibal's voice was terse. "Abigail if you ever need a place to stay for any length of time you do understand that our home is always open to you."

"I know." Abigail gave Hannibal a warm smile as she slid off of her stool and placed the empty plate and fork in the kitchen sink. She gave Hannibal a sweet, innocent kiss on his cheek before bouncing away towards the main staircase. "Thank you!"

"You are welcome," Hannibal called after her, but she was already gone, giggling loudly with Mona over a show they were watching on the television in the large living room on the second floor.

Hannibal was not dressed for bed, but was decked out in what looked to be a new, colourful and expensive suit, his inner peacock more than happy to finally be given its expression. He smoothed down the waistcoat and half turned, giving Will a better view. "I went shopping after my appointment with Bedelia. It's a Burberry, of course, much to my relief. What do you think?"

Will groaned and rubbed his brow with the pad of his thumb. "I think the next time you buy a new suit you should make sure the mortgage is paid first. I found our bank statements this morning, we are barely scraping by." He sighed at Hannibal's complete disinterest in this. "How is your health?"

"It seems I have a minor surgery to schedule. Blockage in my fallopian tubes thanks to scar tissue, caused by Chilton's attack." He wiped imaginary crumbs from the kitchen counter and braced his hands on the chipped faux marble surface, leaning forward on them. "I have also discovered that I am very good friends with Dr. Bedelia DuMaurier, who has not only taken care of our children in the past, but who has an infuriatingly kinder, gentler side to her than that freezer burnt ice cube we left behind. She insisted she give me a hug before I left her condominium. It's a new facet to her that I am not sure I can tolerate."

"Interesting," Will said, his hands loose in his pockets. "Today I discovered that you once had a small affair with FBI Agent Jimmy Price."

Hannibal was aghast at this and his mouth twisted into a sneer. "Bedelia suggested as much. How did such a thing as that happen?"

"Apparently, my counterpart is a real prick. My 'instability' showed up at the worst possible time and nearly destroyed our family." He watched as Hannibal dove into his refrigerator and took out a bottle of wine and a small metal bowl. The oven was quickly opened and a steaming aluminium container was brought out, its contents plated on antique ceramic and a portion of salad balanced upon it with an attractive flair. He set the plate before Will with a small flourish, a setting of cutlery expertly laid out beside it. Will smiled and slid onto one of the stools, while Hannibal poured them both tall glasses of wine to accompany it.

"Jerk chicken that is far blander than Mona's portion, sweet potatoes and roasted corn with a side of escarole frissee drizzled with a mango vinaigrette. Lighter fare than I would usually serve on such a damp winter's night, but we are trying to incorporate the illusion of summer. Mona insisted on chocolate cake for dessert, and now she isn't even eating it."

Will stared down at the mouthwatering plate of food, suddenly realizing how hungry he was. He hadn't eaten since he'd left that morning, and as he picked up his fork and knife and dared to cut into the moist, perfectly cooked chicken he had to admit he had missed this. "You know, when I think back on it, I often wonder how it was that I didn't know I was falling in love with you. You wanted a friend, a comrade in killing who would be willing to see you as you really are, but at that early stage, I just wanted something much simpler. I was looking for a soft place to fall."

Hannibal gave him a restrained smile at this. "We both got what we wanted. I admit, I am having greater difficulty navigating the emotional connotations that this world affords far more than the physical strangeness of it. I helped you to embrace your ferocity, Will. As an Alpha, that is now an expected part of your nature."

"What am I to help you embrace, Hannibal?" Will asked, thoughtful as he consumed the flavourful chicken. "What difficulty can you possibly have here?"

Hannibal inclined his head, reluctant to answer. He sipped at his wine instead, a deflection he had used often in the past when the conversation drifted towards topics he didn't want to discuss or musings he longed to suppress. Will took large bites of his meal, finishing it quickly as he contemplated this silence from his partner. The sudden, tense shyness was one he'd seen in Hannibal before, a coy, tightly restrained desire that had him inclining his head in coquettish flirtation. It was when they had been eating Randall Tier together. Mouthfuls of long pig had been interpreted as a declaration of love.

He stared at Hannibal, his knife and fork forgotten as he placed them back on either side of his plate. Hannibal took another long sip of wine, not meeting Will's gaze.

"I'm going to make you happy," Will said.

Hannibal blinked at this, and if Will didn't know better he'd say his words had left Hannibal confused. "That's a tall responsibility you are taking on, Will. We are each responsible for our own happiness."

"No, this is what you need me to do, this is the becoming you have to understand, in *this* world." He dug into the salad, inwardly remarking that the frissee was just the right tart crispness and paired well with the vinaigrette. "We're back there, Hannibal. After everything that happened, all the trespasses we have committed against one another, all that life made us suffer, we are now free to begin again, and we can be truly happy. Do you not understand that this is exactly the gift you were seeking?"

He finished his meal and pushed the plate to one side, sliding off of the stool. He cornered Hannibal at the refrigerator door, refusing to let him escape. Will's hands slid along Hannibal's waist, teasing at the layers of expensive fabrics, his hand diving in at the front of his trousers and testing the alien readiness he knew was waiting there. A soft cry left Hannibal's lips as Will palmed him, trousers opened and dropped as Hannibal's legs quivered against Will's teasing insistence.

"Abigail and Mona are upstairs," Hannibal protested.

"Then you'll have to be quiet," Will said.

Will kissed him. Deeply. He tore every wayward hope that had secretly lurked in Hannibal's breast and feasted on it. It wasn't just Will's body that wanted to make a meal of him, not when Hannibal was wet and open like this, his back pressed hard against the steel door of the refrigerator, limbs trembling as Will quickly undid his jeans and freed himself. He was learning very quickly what nature wanted him to know. Hannibal let out a small tortured howl as Will slid inside, slick hot and easing in Will's pulsing knots.

"How could he have left you," Will sighed into Hannibal's cheek, the swallowed panting and whimpers muffled against Will's neck driving him hard into release.

" _Aš tave myliu._ " It was a whispered plea, the relief and tension of Hannibal's body still wrapped in finery, the feel of him beautiful.

The phrase staggered out of Will, borne on genetic memory and he couldn't stop its automatic clatter from his tongue, the sensation of this man's body collapsed against his too distracting, his mind dulled to how easily Hannibal was submitting to his whims, surrendering a shared, intense connection that filled every hollow remnant within them both.

"I love you, Babydoll."

Dammit. He didn't just say that, did he?

Hannibal was having trouble focusing, but he tensed in a different way beneath Will's touch, his mouth stumbling in pure confusion as he managed to form a question. "Will...What...What did you just call me?"

Will purposefully shifted and Hannibal cried out, pressing his own fist tight against his mouth in a vain attempt to keep quiet and not alert the attention of their family upstairs, who were hopefully still enjoying the night in ignorance of their parents' lovemaking.

"I said I really fucking love you," Will said, and hoped Hannibal wouldn't seek a further answer.

 

 

 


	6. Meissen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal meets Ezra Graham, and isn't impressed. He has a very, very busy day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear. Alana. Woah, that is one seriously hardcore/dirty thing to say!
> 
> Dan Fogler, the actor who plays Franklyn, is one helluva funny guy. Balls Of Fury is one my all time favourite crack!Movies with Fanboys running a close second. I still don't know how BOF got Christopher Walken in it, it's just...The mind boggles O.O'' But it's really such a great sendup of all those crappy underdog sports movies of the 80's, it's well worth a watch and a howling giggle or ten :P.
> 
> Hannibal/Jimmy??? WTF??? I told you this was crack--I warned ye! Dinna I warned ye!

 

YOU ARE NOW ENTERING GATE #12  
chapter six

Tiger was exceptionally hateful this morning, as evidenced by how nastily she sat on Will's chest and hissed into his face as he dared to shift his head on the pillow. Hannibal watched the cat's display of dominance over the still sleeping Will with curious interest, and he had to wonder what slight had been committed by his husband against the chubby tabby. He'd allowed the food dish to remain empty, perhaps. Had brought home the spoils of a morning's successful fishing at Wolf Trap and hadn't so much as shared a minnow with the feline monarch. Hannibal grinned and picked up the heavy cat, who curled in surprise and happiness in Hannibal's arms. He pointed in admonishment at its nose, Tiger sniffing the harmless finger and licking it with her rough, sandpapery tongue. "No trying to eat our dear Will," he said to the cat, who began to purr in rapture over his favourite human's attention. "He is a delightful treat, but a bit much for your tiny stomach. You are a maneater in name only. You need a mouse to snack on. I have an appointment at noon today with Franklyn Froideveaux. Yes, I think he is the proper kind of pest for you to digest."

His routine was set to be more frantic than yesterday, he had several clients to see and a large dinner to prepare for his now extensive family. After his appointment and cocktail with Bedelia, Hannibal had gone through his own list of chores, along with a quick inventory of what--or, rather, *who*--was being held in the cold storage of his basement workroom. Thanks to his murderous extra curricular activities, Hannibal had a very good understanding of mortuary work and he was confident he had the skills to manipulate the corpses into a semblance of life for the viewing of bereaved relatives.

Who said hobbies weren't useful?

Of course, most clients opted for cremation, and the former Hannibal had been all too ready to accommodate. He would be sure to turn far more of a profit with proper burials, and it is this that he was going to push for in future, with high markups on cheap coffins, and a multi-layered approach to burial plots. The urns themselves for those cheaper exits from the realm of the living were far too cost effective for the customer, and Hannibal made a mental note to double their price.

For now, awake before everyone in the house, Hannibal showered in the small, decrepit en suite, drying himself off with an oversized fluffy towel and wrapping himself up tightly in a bathrobe as he finished his usual toiletries. He opened his closet door and contemplated in depressed annoyance over what he was going to wear. He was sorely tempted to put the new suit he'd bought yesterday back on, but as it now reeked of sex and needed to be dry cleaned, he realized he would have to make do with one of the more drab selections in his counterpart's wardrobe. He closed the closet door, not yet ready to wrap his day in this sort of banal sadness. He would consider his ensemble after he'd made breakfast, and with this decision made, he wrapped the bathrobe around himself tighter and followed Tiger out of the bedroom. Will was still snoring in happy, sated slumber in their bed, and while he no doubt would have preferred to have Hannibal's body still tucked against the length of his own, marathon sex that had lasted throughout the night had left Hannibal a tad sore and, frankly, he was already getting tired of Will's strange insatiability. The kitchen experience the night before had been highly charged with erotic purpose, his flesh singing in praise of Will's skills, a further encore enjoyed when they hid away into their bedroom, closing and locking the door from curious knocks. Hannibal had enjoyed a blissful sleep afterwards, only to be awoken at midnight for another teasing session that left him feeling content, but bruised. When Will reached for him a fourth time, waking him up at three in the morning, Hannibal had to concede there was sometimes too much of a good thing, and managed to fake it well enough for Will to roll off of him and go back to sleep.

Hannibal combed his fingers through his damp hair, his feet bare on the ugly, worn paisley carpet that covered the floor of the narrow hallway. He yawned at thoughts of what breakfast would entail. They did have a guest, one whose habits and likes he understood well, and he smiled at the thought of making Abigail blueberry pancakes, ones as large and fluffy as a dinner plate. He was sure his own children would enjoy them as well.

When was it he had traded thoughts of murder for ones of dull domesticity, taking such pleasure in these small things that had only been on the periphery of his life, like garnishes beside a gourmet meal? It may have been the moment he knew his sister was given back to him, or perhaps it was even earlier than that, when Will's mouth had been so eagerly exploring his own as Hannibal straddled him on that leather chair in his office, his stomach fluttering in anxious anticipation for every teasing lick of his tongue. In any event, he was currently content to rest and enjoy what this particular world had to offer. He had no inclination to kill anybody, which was remarkable, and in all probability spoke of the settled feeling within his mind at the prospect of having one of those lives that encompassed fractal possibilities already tested and pushed to their limits and rendering all further exploration moot. The other grand experiment was yet to begin, and it was one which Will figured prominently and had already offered up a rather daunting challenge. To be 'happy'. A set up for failure if ever there was one, and he was going to delight in Will's constant furlong into this impossible dream. Man was solely made to suffer. He didn't learn by any other rote.

He was thinking thus when he passed by the third door of their large living room and caught a whiff of what was, unmistakably, cigar smoke. Frowning, Hannibal backtracked to the living room entrance, the smoke accompanied by tweaking strings from a guitar that poked into the cold morning like a bottle of half drunk whiskey left open and dusty on a shanty shelf. This had to be a mirage, for there was a man in their living room, a stranger sprawled wide on one of their couches in front of the TV, a guitar balanced on his knees like a plank of wood as the strings were wired along the struts. He sucked on a thick cigar, periodically taking it out from between his clenched teeth to allow a thick stream of smoke to leave him and coat the air around him in an earthy, but dirty, imprint. He half turned and put Hannibal in his sights, eagerly waving him into the living room to come closer. He was a tall, thin man, with thick laugh lines and yet a downturned, cruel mouth, an incongruity Hannibal found disconcerting.

"Was wondering when you'd decide to roll out of bed. That sleeping beauty of yours still hiding his head under the covers like the lazy son of a bitch he is?" The thick, Louisiana drawl poured out of him like cold syrup as he chomped on his cigar, a good quality one if Hannibal cared to be attentive. With a beady gaze, he gave Hannibal a searching once over that, for reasons he couldn't identify, made him want to take another long, hot shower.

Hannibal approached him, smiling wanly and hoping politeness would smooth over his complete ignorance of who the man was. "It's good to see you," he ventured and this seemed to be the correct response if the low chuckle that answered him was any indication.

"Come here, Babydoll, let me get a better look at you."

That odd word, used again, and Hannibal bristled at it, not liking the way it made him feel, like a pile of little bugs were crawling in patches on the underside of his skin. He placed his hands deep in the pockets of his housecoat and slowly approached the man sprawled in easy comfort on his couch.

"We don't smoke in the house," Hannibal informed him.

"Must be real cold for you then, when you need a puff and have to go out in that billowing tundra. But hey, I ain't judging if you like all that fresh air." The man continued to suck on his cigar, narrowing his eyes on Hannibal as though he'd found him incredibly amusing. "So, you just going to stand there, Babydoll? Not going to give dear old dad some sugar?"

He struck before Hannibal could stop him, a quick roll of his arm around Hannibal's waist and before he knew it he was tossed into the offensive man's lap, his hands firm on his ass. The old codger let out a whoop of victory as Hannibal tried to extricate himself from his grip, and though the man didn't know it, Hannibal had already figured out six ways to kill him, not the least of which was making him choke to death on that damned cigar--That would be the simplest process, plucked and tucked into a shocked mouth the wrong way in. Or perhaps a string plucked from that guitar and used to garrotte his neck, though snapping one off the instrument could prove tricky, it might cut his palm and leave evidence behind, so there was always the old standby of the hands on approach, a simple crush of his larynx with strong thumbs pressed tight against his prominent Adam's apple.

His murderous intentions were interrupted, however, by a sleepy Will Graham who padded into the living room in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and a yawn. He rubbed the back of his head as he stared at the scene before him, expressionless, even bored.

"Hey. Dad."

"Hey yourself. Son."

Hannibal managed to get free, Ezra Graham's groping hands notwithstanding. He pulled his housecoat tight around him, enough to hide his neck, both hands gripping it closed. Ezra Graham laughed loud at his embarrassment, slapping his knee with his palm before landing another unwelcome whack on Hannibal's ass.

"Your father?" he hissed at Will through clenched teeth.

"Oh yeah," Will said, staring down at his laughing patriarch, who was taking great delight in Hannibal's discomfort. "He hasn't changed a bit."

~*~  
"I don't know why you have to make them this big. Pancakes ought to be stacked, like coins. This is like eating a damned loaf of bread and syrup. Mighty nice, though, except for the bits of orange, and I don't know why you added cinnamon, kills the taste of the blueberry if you ask me." Ezra Graham shovelled in another mouthful, he was already on his second pancake while Abigail and Mona flanked him on either side, perched on stools and drinking in everything he said as though it was gospel itself.

"Is it true you shot a man?" Abigail asked, her blue eyes wide. "That you shot lots of men--All right between the eyes, single bullet, down they went, and you got paid for it by the mob?"

Ezra Graham nodded over his blueberry pancakes and added more syrup. "No."

"Did you really beat a murder charge by sleeping with the Sheriff's wife?" Mona asked.

Ezra Graham nodded his head again and took a sip of coffee. "Nah."

"You once beat a man to death with an antique alarm clock. It was a true crime feature on 20/20."

"Can't say I watch those kinds of shows, Mona. Ain't good for the positive outlook."

Mona's eyes were as wide as the pancake on her plate, Abigail's in likewise wonderment. "Seriously, Poppy, how many people have you killed?"

He held out his fingers and started counting, stopping somewhere around fifty. "Not a one."

Hannibal was still in his bathrobe, and had corralled Will into his office, closing the door just enough so they were out of sight and sound of Ezra, but leaving it open a crack so they could listen in as witnesses to his unwelcome influence. "You might have mentioned your father was a nefarious felon. Honestly, Will, he's a misogynistic jackass, why is he in our house?"

Will let out a tired sigh at this. "He thinks I'm going to abandon you."

Hannibal frowned at this, and shook his head. "Does he believe he's the replacement? Hardly, Will!"

Will chewed his bottom lip and dared to peek out at his father through the crack in the door. "My father is a very perceptive man and he can deal with certain realms of empathy far better than his sensitive son. Obviously, he sees an opportunity to make sure his only son doesn't fuck up his life. Again. He'll kill me if it comes to it." Will rolled his eyes at Hannibal's expression of disbelief. "My father fixed a lot of things. Including for organized crime. Sailing up and down the coast and fixing boat motors was a great cover. We moved around a lot because of dear old dad. Always had to stay one step ahead of a crime scene."

"A rather large block of information you decided to keep from me."

"I was working for the FBI, and I've spent my entire life keeping the feds away from my dad."

"Lying to your psychiatrist was hardly conducive to your therapy, Will. I believe a considerable amount of pain could have been avoided had I known your father was a serial killer."

"Hired gun, not the same thing at all. And he wasted every dime he made on booze and women, so it's not like he turned a profit doing it, either." Will scratched the back of his head and dared to open the door a tiny bit more to hear the deep intonations of his father's voice, who was still obtusely answering the two young women flanked on either side of him at the kitchen island. "At least he kept that part of his life from me, best he could, but I figured it out eventually. He damaged me in other ways, he stole all of my girlfriends, slept with their moms, every teacher, every babysitter, every nurse...Doesn't surprise me at all he that wants to get his hands on you."

Hannibal contemplated this, his usual perverse curiosity coming to the fore. Will had called him 'Babydoll' in a heated, passionate moment, and the echo of that made Hannibal's skin crawl. "I have to wonder, Will, what changes this version of your father may have in this universe. As it is, I have no inclination whatsoever to kill anyone at present--save for my reaction this morning--and I'm finding that absence of homicidal need rather telling. Perhaps your father is the same way."

"Not a chance," Will said, and shook his head. "He is *exactly* the same as in that other world."

"Exactly?"

"I bet he's already been there and back again, that's how sure I am."

Hannibal took this information in with a sick feeling welling within the pit of his stomach. "Should he be left alone with Abigail?"

"Probably not, but Mona is there, she seems to be an adequate barrier..."

"OH MY GOD, DID YOU REALLY STAB SOME GUY TO DEATH IN THE EYE WITH A KEBAB SKEWER?? THAT'S FUCKING AWESOME!!"

Will sighed at his daughter's outburst and Hannibal could feel the tired weariness affecting him as well, all energy completely drained. "I think we might have to come to the realization that there is something seriously wrong with our daughter."

"She doesn't seem to understand subtlety at all," Hannibal grimly agreed.

Will groaned and checked his watch, the early hour goading him. "I need to get to work, Jack's picking me up in twenty minutes. Good luck with your clients today and give me a call if you have any problems." He gave Hannibal a searching kiss that wound through every portion of his body and straight down out of his toes and into the floor beneath him, and it was all Hannibal could do to remain upright and not allow Will to take him over his office desk, which was exactly what Will's Alpha nature wanted to do.

Will pulled away with difficulty, leaving Hannibal breathless. He left the office silently, and Hannibal was left alone within it, listening to the dark tones of Ezra Graham's voice echoing out of their kitchen and across the front foyer of his family home.

"Babydoll!" Ezra Graham shouted into the space and Hannibal flinched at the endearment. "How's about a breakfast beer for the old man! A day ain't started right without a pretty face and some liquor!"

~*~  
Hannibal made sure there were ample tissues available, as well as a trash can in full view. Not that he believed Franklyn would be wise enough to use it, his snivelling sorrow no doubt about to erupt through the small confines of Hannibal's office in a torrent of ugly snot and whining. The fact he was alive in this world and still influencing its periphery was a sore spot for Hannibal, for while the man was irritating, he also had a genuine pity for him. It was a difficult thing going through life that needy and pathetic. Hannibal was self serving to a fault, but pointless deaths irked him, and Franklyn's had always sat ill in his conscience. It was a shame he had been such a dumbass.

The clock chimed noon and Hannibal was busy behind his desk, going over various accounts and scheming over who had the most money to fleece. His counterpart had been woefully ethical, a problem Hannibal was keen to correct, and he was already adding several charges to some of the loftier bills, explanations of added preservatives and insertions to bring the glow of life to death, actions which were cosmetic for a very short period of time. Grief was blinding to the fact that once the coffin was lowered the earth took over and rot did its grisly work. He pondered that if he did decide to start killing again, that old itch needing a scratch, he could give the corpses of his clients some much appreciated company. Of course, the crematorium would be more than adequate disposal as well, but Hannibal couldn't help but lament the thought of it all being so sterile and hidden. He'd much prefer the idea of walking across a cemetery and knowing his art was secretively seeping into the soil.

He glanced at the ironwork clock hanging on the wall above the door to his office and was surprised to see that Franklyn was late for his appointment. He steepled his fingers and frowned at this, for the man was always so pathologically punctual, even early, his sessions an exhaustive exercise that irritated Hannibal's usually calm demeanour. Suffering him had been unbearable, and it was an unkind twist of karma to push him back into his life once again. Still, he couldn't hate the man, not really, he was too pathetic for that, but he couldn't tolerate him, either.

It was quarter past noon when Hannibal heard the front door to his home open and close and a familiar wheeze and cough roll through the foyer. He smoothed down his suit, and adjusted his tie, his attire one of a selection of dark greys that blended in soft tones into one another. He stood up and opened the door to his office as Franklyn approached, standing to one side in a gesture of welcome, a politeness that, regrettably, was stunted in shock.

"Franklyn! I..." Hannibal stared at the man in near mute shock, taking in his rumpled appearance and the overall sensation that the man had just rolled out of bed and showed up in the clothes he'd already been wearing. He was wearing a worn, black t-shirt with holes in the sleeves, large, faded white letters boldly exclaiming 'Fuck This Shit', a pair of baggy jeans and converse sneakers that were ripped and frayed at the heel. His hair was much longer, a frizzy unkempt halo that blended into his thicker beard. He gave Hannibal's exclamation a quizzical expression and ambled like an oversized marble into Hannibal's office, plunking himself sloppily into the chair opposite his desk as he took out his wallet.

"How much is this shit going to cost me?" he asked. He gave Hannibal's reluctant silence a glower, a wholly unexpected reaction to find on the usually overly friendly Franklyn's face. "Look, I'm not the one in mourning, all right? She was my mother-in-law, she was a monstrous bitch, she damned near ruined my life. If I could, I'd tap dance on her corpse, but that's not exactly appropriate, so I'm just here, getting shit done. I don't want to hear about how you're so sorry for my loss, or that you understand how hard it is, or any of that In Sympathy Hallmark Card bullshit you guys toss around. My mother-in-law was a cunt. C-U-N-T."

Hannibal sat uneasily behind his desk carefully taking in this vastly different Franklyn and suddenly wishing he had the old one instead. Franklyn's cell phone rang and he cursed, holding up his hand as he pulled it out of his back pocket and bidding Hannibal a small apology. "Sorry, got to take this." He pressed the phone to his cheek and his rotund, angry fury suddenly morphed into overly sweet overtones that would have made the Franklyn Hannibal knew proud. "Hello, sweetie, how are you doing? I know, it's such tragedy." He rolled his eyes and hands as though pushing the other person's grief along. Hannibal could hear gentle sobbing through the earpiece, its tones oddly familiar. "I'm at the funeral home now. Yes, I'm talking to the funeral director. Yes, they are going to treat Mama with all the respect she deserves." He silently mouthed curses. There was a long tirade after this, punctuated with muffled tears through the earpiece and Franklyn was clearly already losing patience. "You want the pink coffin, now? That's another two thousand dollars, Tobias, I don't think...Right. It's all for Mama. No problem, sweetie, whatever you want. I will." He grimaced into the phone. "Love you, too."

He hung it up with a barely contained expletive. "Honest to fucking God, Omegas are the worst. Always so damned prissy and know it all, and won't bend an inch, oh no, has to be their way or the highway." He gave Hannibal a disinterested once over. "No offence."

Hannibal felt the best recourse was to ignore the slight, and he busied himself pulling up Franklyn's account instead. "I believe you are purchasing the Monte Carlo model," Hannibal said, wincing at the gaudy coffin that showed up on his computer screen, with its highly stylized baroque trimmings that looked like icing on a tacky cake. Hannibal cleared his throat through his displeasure at the aesthetic. "And you want it in pink."

"I get it. She's going out in a Billot Log. I'm not the one making the decisions, here. I got an hysterical Omega at home, weeping over his violin every damned night over that miserable bitch. I want to keep this as cheap as chips, if you know what I mean. I don't have a pile of money, neither does Tobias--I own a crappy little comic book store and he owns the crappy little violin store next to it, and we both live in a crappy little apartment above the donut shop across the street. Tell me, Mr. Lecter, is there any way I can just rent this disgusting piece of crap and you can burn her body afterwards? Wrap her up in plastic and toss her in a well? Tobias need never know."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Froideveaux, but I am not in the habit of altering someone's last wishes. The answer will have to be no." Hannibal eyed Franklyn's disconcertion over this with narrowed concentration, knowing the man was currently going over his finances and was thinking hard on selecting another funeral home who just might make good on his suggestion. "The facts are, she will be lowered into the ground in this coffin and there will be ample witnesses. I am not averse to your plight, however. I can order a lightweight, plastic model version of this coffin that is used exclusively for display purposes. It will be significantly cheaper to bury her in it and, I dare say, it will be in keeping with her sense of style."

Franklyn eagerly held out his hand, sausage fingers wiggling. "Deal!"

They shook on it, and Franklyn went to take his hand away, but Hannibal kept a firm grip. "I only ask in return that should you hear of any unfortunate demises in future that you direct the families to my services. As a small business owner, you understand the need to help one another out."

"Uh, yeah, sure," Franklyn said, and only then did Hannibal release his grip. Hannibal knew that in Franklyn's rather dull mind he believed he would have no cause to be telling people all about the Lecter Funeral Home since he wasn't counting on knowing that many people who died. But Hannibal was banking on the fact that Tobias, an hysterical Omega in mourning who no longer had his mother on hand to give checks and balances to his murderous nature would be visiting his homicidal side with gusto in the near future. He smiled warmly at Franklyn. He was set to have a profitable year.

~*~

Franklyn said his goodbyes, but it seemed Hannibal was to have a busy day of constant human interaction, despite the fact his home was empty of all family (Ezra Graham had a few 'things to do' which according to Will involved parking himself on a stool and imbibing a lot of alcohol at a sketchy dive bar on the outskirts of Baltimore)for as Franklyn happily left, another visitor walked in, this one a rather curious, unexpected insertion into his day's schedule. FBI Agent Jimmy Price walked into the front foyer and Hannibal bid him a strained, uncertain welcome.

He had hints of that other, studious and serious Jimmy Price, who had taken great delight in the science of death, his font of knowledge one of eclectic oddities that Hannibal had often found amusing. This particular Jimmy Price had all of this and a strange hardness to him as well, and as he walked further into the Lecter-Graham home, Hannibal had the distinct feeling it was as though he were measuring his steps like a thief. "This marble always gets me, it's so over the top. People would never know you live here, the way you've castled it up," Jimmy said, tapping his heel on it. He held his hands on his hips, his beige trench coat parted wide. "Kind of slippery this time of year, though. Wouldn't want to be an old lady in heels walking on this, could break a hip. Mind you, maybe that's a sneaky way to drum up business. I ain't gonna judge."

Hannibal hummed in response to this and gestured to the darkened hallway to the left of the chapel's doors. "How about some coffee? I can make a fresh pot."

He walked with practised elegance to their kitchen, Jimmy in tow, his posture only slightly relaxed as he took in the decor of the house, some of it possibly changed since the last time he had been here. Hannibal assumed it had been a while ago, since in his opinion much in the home needed new repairs and design, not the least of which was this dreadful kitchen. He pulled out a bag of freshly ground coffee beans and set a kettle on to boil. The french press was hardly his complex distiller, but it was of the proper ceramic design and set to make a heady brew. "It's been quite a day for me already," Hannibal said, making small talk against the tension Jimmy's presence presented. "A demanding client, Will's father Ezra visiting..."

"Will's father is here?"

"Not at present, we're alone in the house for now, but that will not be the case tonight. I seem to have a large table to cook for, and I haven't yet determined the full extent of the menu. Hopefully, my meeting with the Vergers will not take long. The mugs are in the top cupboard just above your head, please take the black one down, and the navy..."

And then, just like that, a little dance of a sidestep and FBI Agent Jimmy Price wrapped his arms around Hannibal's waist and pulled him into the most erotic, searching, desperate and sensual kiss he had experienced in his life, and he was bolted to the floor by the power of it, unable to move--unable to *speak*.

What constellation was this? A confusion of feeling wrapped itself around Hannibal's senses and though his heart and mind were one in their mutual shout of "Will!" there was a certain rhythm here that held tantalizing oddity within it.

"You can't begin to know how much I've missed you."

He tried to do it again, and damn if Hannibal didn't nearly let him, only to have an instant image of a very jealous William, one whom he doubted would let Jimmy Price live through this brand of infidelity. "Jimmy," Hannibal whispered as soft kisses lined his neck and hands started doing some serious roving. "We can't."

"We did when we were alone in the house last week," Jimmy reminded him, and Hannibal felt a well of sickening disappointment roll through him at this, for it was clear this was not the happy nest he had thought it was. Will was wrong, the affair hadn't ended, in fact it was barrelling along, stronger than ever, and from the way Jimmy Price was now massaging his back and sliding his hands between his thighs, Hannibal could very well understand why.

Still, this was Jimmy Price. Team science. The man who kept pet cicadas and worried about the bees. Damn him, where did he learn how to touch a person like that, like he was an expert in bringing desire to its knees? No, this wouldn't work, this was all wrong. Stop. This had to stop.

"Stop."

Jimmy did, reluctantly. He stood to one side as the kettle started screaming, and Hannibal stepped back, smoothing down his suit and tie and turning with confused purpose back to making coffee. "He's out," Jimmy told him, and he couldn't resist pinching at Hannibal's chin, expecting to find fear and worry. "Frederick Chilton won't come near you, that I can promise you. You don't have to be scared. I'm on it. When that husband of yours takes off again, and leaves you alone in that bed, aching for someone to keep all that death away, that's when you'll call me." He delivered another passionate kiss that left Hannibal reeling, strangely sensual hands caressing his neck before letting them drop. He ached for them to come back. Jimmy stepped away, and Hannibal had to fight the urge to close the space between them, to give into the temptation he presented. Hannibal's mind might balk at the suggestion, but the memory of his body certainly didn't. Odd as the realization was, Jimmy Price had very convincing skills.

"See you soon," Jimmy promised, and he stepped out of the kitchen, the coffee forgotten as Hannibal stood silent in place, watching him leave.

"I hope not," Hannibal thought, and pressed his fingers to his lips, a strange sensation of guilt lingering as a savoury aftertaste on his tongue.

~*~  
Will hadn't been exaggerating. Female Alphas were very, very aggressive.

It was the sort of request he would have expected from a Verger, and the fact it came from Margot even more so. It was clear this version of Mason was equally problematic, his habits just as perverse only leaning more on the side of bestiality rather than pedophilia, though Hannibal was quite sure if there was a dual sexual component to such perversions, Mason would definitely be its celebrity. He was a drug addict, a festering sore on the Verger name, enough for his father to oust him from the family will and surrender all of the Verger assets to his Beta daughter, Margot. This tipping of power didn't seem to do much for Margot's already abrasive personality, though he had to admit this tougher, coarser version held none of the original's fragility, her confident strength bolstered by her long term relationship with one Alpha female, Alana Bloom, her former accountant and hedge funds manager. They both stood in the white confines of his basement workroom, the corpse of Mason Verger on the slab before them, the cause of his death as obvious as the massive hole in his head.

"Baa, baa, bye, little brother," Margot said, and she took a flask of whiskey from the pocket of her red wool coat and unscrewed the cap. She offered it with a flourish to Alana and Hannibal, who both refused. "Don't know why you won't celebrate this milestone with me. I always told him he needed a good kick to the head, it's about time he took my advice."

"I can reconstruct that side of his head and make it symmetrical for viewing," Hannibal assured her. He gestured to a blackened hallway leading out to a separate set of stairs that wound their way up to the chapel. "There is an excellent selection of coffins, of varying variety in colour and styles, but I would encourage you to consider the Mount Royale, which both incorporates elements of Mason's interests and his profession. I understand your estate is a champion breeder of thoroughbreds--The horseshoe theme of the Mount Royale is subtle and yet purposeful. The interior is, of course, genuine leather, with various decorative buckles and straps along the inner lining of its lid to give the illusion of a bridle."

"Toss him in a cardboard box for all I care," Margot said, and took another swig. "This asshole cost me enough in lawyer bills and stayed in the news like a weekly feature. Seriously, the paparazzi used to run *from* him. And don't bother fixing his head, the more chewed up he looks the better, the press will love it. In fact, can you make the hole a bit bigger? He just looks like he banged his head really bad, and that's hardly going to make the front covers."

Alana Bloom stood to one side, clearly finding the whole thing rather boring, as evidenced by her loud yawn and clipped steps as she wandered around the small workroom. Wearing a simple black dress that accentuated the round shape of her breasts, she kept putting Hannibal in the periphery of her vision, a fact Margot caught onto immediately. "She knows you're an Omega," Margot spat, and took another swig. "That's my Alana. Always sniffing out fresh meat."

"I just like to do my research," Alana said, standing too close, and making sure Hannibal had a good view of her cleavage and leaving not so subtle hints about her stamina. When they first arrived and he guided them down to his basement workroom, Alana had point blank asked him if he'd had his heat recently. She assured him she could still smell its residual sweetness on him, suggesting whoever had tried to cure that particular ache hadn't done the job properly.

Though she didn't deserve the explanation, he at least enjoyed this carnal version of that moral compass he once knew in that fading other life, and he said to her with equal candour, "I have a medical condition that has been tampering with my cycles. I do hope it isn't making you uncomfortable."

Margot snorted loudly at this. "I wouldn't be worried about that, Mr. Lecter! I'm the bed and you're the cozy comforter to her, if you get my drift."

He still didn't,not quite, and it wasn't until Tiger jumped onto the slab and began tasting the torn flesh at Mason's ear that he got a far clearer picture of Alana Bloom's lustful nature. She picked up the rotund tabby and practically purred herself into the cat's flank as she stroked her, red lipstick leaving a smeared gash on the silver sheen of fur. "So pretty," she said, but she was looking directly at Hannibal when she said it. "I sure do like petting your pussy, Mr. Lecter."

A rather monstrous double-entendre, but there it was, and it left Hannibal blushing furiously, a fact that made Alana laugh at his discomfort. "Dammit, Margot, I wish we knew more dead people. Look at him, he's adorable, it's a shame we're only seeing him once. Well, as far as we know, there's some on the edge of life in the family, aren't there, Margot? Aunt Mary has a heart condition, and I'm sure getting her corpse here instead of to New York wouldn't be such a big deal, would it? You could be our own private undertaker, on retainer, our own cute little Lurch."

"We could always get a contract done up," Margot shrugged.

Alana grinned at this. "What a great idea! You'd have to come by the house. Really, Mr. Lecter, you should come by the Verger estate sometime, for one of our little formal soirees, get into the fold properly. The entrees are lovely, we get a chef flown in from France." She bit her bottom lip before licking them and pursing her mouth as she spoke. "But dessert has always been my favourite. Syrup on my cake." She was still holding Tiger as she approached him, a long fingernail tracing along the outline of his jaw and leaving him shivering at her touch. She was an Alpha, after all, and displays of such dominance were difficult for him to resist. "Peaches and cream..."

"I know you from somewhere," Margot Verger chimed in. She was the same slight woman, delicate in many ways and hard in others. Alana, despite her Alpha gender, was all softness and curves, save for what was hidden under her skirt. He hoped she had the wherewithal to tape it down. Margot squinted at him, and then gave him a crooked grin, slapping Alana on the shoulder as she remembered. "He's that one in the news! The one that freak nearly murdered all those years ago! You know, the one who had the kid torn out of him."

"You have children?" Alana said, and her smile was strained now. Margot, regretfully, filled in the blanks.

"He has two! The last one was a girl, wasn't it? Got gutted like a fish, that's what the news said. The Caesarean Ripper, that crazy bastard they're letting out. Must be hard sleeping at night knowing that thing is on the loose. No wonder his heats are all fucked up, probably chopped up his insides like devilled ham..."

Alana was mortified by Margot's blunt, crude retelling of his old injury, and she gently dropped Tiger in order to place a warm hand on his shoulder and lean in just that little too close for it to be comfortable. "Don't listen to her, she's a drunk and a bitch. She can't help herself, it's part of her gene pool. I hope you got someone here to keep you safe at night. You know, if you ever need it, I can always stop by and we can enjoy a lovely, sweet dessert...All. Night. Long."

"I'm bonded. To an Alpha. His name is Will Graham," Hannibal curtly said, getting sick of how touchy feely everyone was around him, and he shook Alana's shoulder off, uncomfortable with her cloying proximity and Margot's ugly smirk. "The funeral will begin Friday evening, with viewing at seven. Burial will be at ten in the morning on Sunday, you can text me which casket you would prefer." He stepped aside and curtly bid them to go ahead of him into the dark hallway and up the stairs that led into the main chapel. He hadn't forgotten his last promise to her, and this version of Alana was very much toeing over the mark.

"Oh, I'll text you," Alana promised him, and the way she said it made his stomach angrily twitch.

He followed after them, the journey up the stairs and through the chapel led by Tiger, who seemed to want Alana to pick her up again, and Hannibal had to wonder how it was the cat had so little sense, making allies of his obvious enemies.

He was brusque as he said his good-byes and no sooner had the door closed that it opened up again, this time spilling in his son and their massive, ancient Rottweiler, Samson, who limped his way carefully across the marble floor with careful, plodding steps. He left large splotches of slushy mud in his wake, which Hannibal had to mop up. Marcus stood stock still in the front foyer of their home as Hannibal fussily began searching for a cloth to wipe up the mess, bidding his son to help him. But Marcus only turned to his mother and glared at Hannibal, his almond shaped eyes not all liking what his keen olfactory senses told him. "Is Poppy here?"

Hannibal sighed. He'd detected the malignant cigar. "Yes. He's staying for dinner."

"You've got to be fucking joking."

Hannibal paused at this, for the family rift was obvious and it was going to be difficult to get the information he needed out of the monosyllabic Marcus. "It's only for tonight," Hannibal promised, and he wiped imaginary dust from his son's slumped shoulders and then curled his arm around him in an embrace. Though he was tense, it was a relief to have something in common with his morose, overly intense son, and he was looking forward to the bonding session they were set to have over their mutual hatred of Ezra Graham. "We're having a big dinner tonight. Mischa is coming as well, and I have decided on lamb stew with Irish soda bread and chocolate trifle for dessert. You can help me peel potatoes." He smiled and stroked his son's hair, which was still damp from the snow gently falling outside. "How was your day at work?"

"Shitty. I had to euthanize a sheep. Apparently it killed somebody. Sheep are stupid and docile, what the hell did someone do to piss one off enough to turn it into a murderer?"

"Something unspeakably unpleasant, I'm sure," Hannibal said, releasing him to slide off his winter coat and toss it into the closet before trudging off to the kitchen, annoyed with being forced to help with a dinner he wasn't going to enjoy in the least. They all had burdens to bear, it seemed. Even Mason Verger's ripening corpse.

  
  



	7. Nippon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner is served. Oh dear. Domestic life is far more hectic than either Will or Hannibal expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having an insane amount of fun with this! Apologies to people who have fallen in foyers everywhere.

YOU ARE NOW ENTERING GATE #12  
chapter seven

Papers, papers and more papers. Will had writer's cramp by the time his day at the morgue was finished, scribbling away all of Jack's oral notations on each chart and carefully labelling and numbering each one. He had no idea coroners were responsible for this amount of hospital work, where every slightly non-natural and questionable death became a tedious chore of ball point penned notes, checked boxes and signatures. A bumper crop as Jack jokingly called it. Jack was the people person, so he spent a good deal of his time on the phone, talking to surviving family members and letting them know how to fill out insurance forms. It was all painfully dull and free of adrenaline. He yawned as he snuck a look through the open office door and watched as Jack weighed a three hundred pound man's oversized heart, the third one that day. By two o'clock Will was ready to take a nap.

He had to admit there were certain psychological advantages to this kind of slower paced life, one that slightly resembled the one he'd made for himself before Jack Crawford had wandered onto his property at Wolf Trap, seeking his help. There was a strange, Fate induced atonement happening here, and if his counterpart was someone who fell to pieces at every stress placed on life, this Will Graham was well equipped to deal with all of them.

All but one. Ezra Graham, alive and well, was a serious problem.

The rotten *sameness* of him was what upset Will most. Everyone else in his fresh and shiny little universe was morphed and changed by this new shuffle of life and death and patchwork sexuality. But not his father, oh no, he had to stubbornly cling to his usual boorish charms and loutish booming that put every single one of Will's teeth individually on edge. That morning Will had sleepily gone into the living room, awoken by Hannibal's Lithuanian curses and his father's unmistakable drawl and was instantly disappointed to see that Hannibal hadn't slit the old bastard's throat. Of all the people for a monster like Hannibal to leave alive. It smacked of insult.

Jack opened the office door, the scent of rubbing alcohol and death seeping in through the opened frosted glass door. "Your ball and chain is trying to get a hold of you. Apparently, you are out of parsley."

Jack waved his cell phone in Will's face, the text message sitting in a little blue bubble on the screen. _"Jack, please inform Will that I need the following ingredients: Parsley, leeks, Guinness beer and baking soda. Tell him to go to the proper gourmet market I prefer on Charles St., the produce is superior to any disgusting 7-11 Eleven he will choose on the way home. And please tell him to turn on his phone. So sorry, to trouble you--Hannibal Lecter."_

Nervous, Will tore his cell phone out of his lab coat pocket and discovered the battery had completely died. "I..." Was this normal for them? Was Hannibal's reckless need to fill the day with useless grocery lists a burden Jack Crawford, coroner, didn't need to bear?

But Jack laughed and it was obvious to Will that this was, in fact, a common occurrence. "He's stressed to the max about your dad, isn't he? Fuck, that guy can make a sloth feel jittery."

Will openly groaned and sank his face into his hands. "He's staying for dinner tonight, and Mischa is coming over. He's been bugging me about my career choice, my past mistakes, the way we eat breakfast, he's smacking Hannibal's ass and calling him 'Babydoll' and he keeps tuning that damned guitar. If he sings tonight, I'm going to lose it, I'm going to wrap those tinny strings around his neck. All of us at the table, Jack. One big, happy, festering family, what can I say?"

Jack found Will's misery hilarious, his giggles echoing throughout the tiny office. He slapped Will on the back with a thick pile of beige folders which he then plopped onto his desk. More ink to spill on paper.

"I'd be pissed I didn't get an invite but with Ezra at that table, I'm glad I'm not in your miserable company. Hope Marcus doesn't get all riled up like he did the last time. Ain't right the way he talks to that kid, accusing his mom of being some kind of baby trapper. Ezra's favourite topic. It's way out of line."

Will frowned at this and began shuffling through the files, Jack giving him a friendly pat on the back before leaving him alone with his thoughts. He fished through the desk drawers and found a power cord for the cell phone and plugged it in, the little green bar gasping for life.

No, he hadn't been honest with Hannibal about his father, and who would? The fact he was just as burdened in this universe with his father's criminal bullshit was every measure of depressing. He was still pulling his blues man act for the ladies, too, and Will winced at the very thought of his father strumming on that guitar, singing a song of his own creation about whores and split arteries. If the FBI really wanted to catch a contract killer all they had to do was listen closely to his father's lyrics.

His cell phone awoke and he could see that several missed messages from Hannibal littered the tiny screen. The phone had a picture of their dog Samson as the wallpaper background, his grey, grizzled face smiling with slobbering content into the camera. At least the dog didn't judge him.

Will swept the phone open and the frantic texts from Hannibal made him sigh in resigned misery. _"Will, are you aware that your father and our son have had a serious disconnect practically since our eldest child's birth? Your father fervently believes I trapped you into marriage by getting pregnant! He said this right in front of Marcus, the absolute gall of him! I am ready to put my chef knife in his back and fillet his spine, he practically called me a whore!"_

_"I'm going to kill your father. He is an abhorrent, disgusting, horrid man!"_

_"I've spent the bulk of my early evening wondering how best to roast your father's heart. Sadly, as he's been wholly unapologetic towards our very upset son, I suspect he doesn't have one to cook."_

_"Tiger has just scratched a large, bloody gash in your father's arm. Serves him right for picking her up and teasing her. I have never envied an animal more."_

Will let out a groaning sigh and answered the texts with quick work of his thumbs. _"He thinks all females and those with female parts are whores. Honest to God, it's nothing personal. Hopefully, the store you remember is still there. C U soon, leaving in an hour."_

He tossed the phone back onto the surface of the desk and dove into the paperwork of the dead. Form letters and checked boxes, that was what we come down to. There was a strange comfort in this. When the time came, not even his enigmatic Hannibal's corpse could avoid this kind of boring charting.

~*~  
The drive home with Jack was cheery and uneventful and a very tired but stress free Will Graham who had spent a happy day with the dead toddled into his home and was immediately struck by how quiet it was. He stood in the front foyer with the door still open, snow billowing in behind him as he listened with suspicion at this pervasive sense of calm. He could hear guitar strings plinking upstairs in the living room, and girlish giggling from Mona and Abigail. He closed the front door behind him carefully, sliding his coat off of his shoulders and hanging it up, all the while constantly staring up the stairs and around the corner to the left of the chapel, convinced there was about to be a gunfight to rival the climactic scene in Scarface.

He cautiously slid off his shoes, placing them in the closet before walking in his socks to the tiny kitchen, where he found Hannibal and Marcus dutifully preparing dinner and chatting amicably. There was no hint of any violent discourse despite knowing that Ezra Graham was very much in the house. Hannibal paused as he was cutting a potato in half, and gave Will a tight smile. "You went to my preferred grocer's as I requested?"

"Cost me an arm and a leg," Will complained, holding up the cotton bag with the store's logo on it: _'Hobbs Butchery & Organic Eats_'. "You'd think he'd give us a discount since his kid eats here so often."

"I should have rethought this dinner," Hannibal said, taking the ingredients and giving them a critical eye. "I have Mason Verger's viewing tomorrow night, and Franklin's mother-in-law is getting buried in the morning. They delivered her pink plastic coffin an hour ago, oh it is truly dreadful, a thrift store Barbie wouldn't be caught dead in it. I can't wait to put it in the ground, such a monstrosity only proves that Tobias is every inch the sadist I know he is set to become. Marcus, be a darling and set the table in the chapel's guest dining hall."

Marcus gave his mother a strange look at this. "We never eat there."

"Then this shall be a new tradition. There's far too many of us for this tiny little room and half of our dining chairs are at risk of falling apart, the spindles are cracked and the legs wobble. A thrift store would reject it. Why are we keeping it when the whole thing is nothing better than kindling for the crematorium? Use the good silver, I saw it earlier in a plastic shoe box near the sideboard by the main chapel doors."

Was it just his perception or was Hannibal taking on aspects of a rampant Martha Stewart Motherhood, complete with a stint in prison? Will pulled up a stool to watch Hannibal continue prepping dinner, flour dredged pieces of lamb browned in a sizzling saucepan with butter. "It smells delicious."

Hannibal craned his head around the corner of the refrigerator making sure Marcus was gone before turning back to Will with a dour, anxious expression. "I have a serious problem."

Will grinned and leaned over, deftly kissing his pouting mouth. "Yes. You smell and taste as sweet as ever. It's getting a tad overpowering, to be honest. I think you might be in heat again."

"That may explain some of the amorous attention I've been receiving lately, though not all of it. Will, I met Alana Bloom and Margot Verger today."

"Yes, the whole Mason counting sheep thing..."

Hannibal tutted at Will's flippancy. "It was very uncomfortable. Alana Bloom is an Alpha and when you said the females are aggressive, you were a little off the mark. She practically violated me when she had me trapped in the basement."

"She has that habit," Will reminded him.

Hannibal took out his cell phone and placed it on the cutting board between them. He kept checking over Will's shoulder to make sure no one was coming into the kitchen. He tapped the screen and brought an eyeful to light. "She keeps sending me dick pics."

"Well, I suppose I should be offended, but really...Jesus, that's Alana Bloom? I'm feeling kind of inadequate."

Hannibal snatched up his cell phone and turned it off. "She's sent me five of them, and it's not funny! Stop laughing, there is nothing amusing about her massive cock!"

"We-hell, somethin's got you all hot and bothered, Babydoll. Ah, see the boy of the house is home. Why we eatin' in the chapel dining room when this one's just fine? I don't want to be munchin' my meal with the worms. Coffins right beside me making me feel guilty over upping my cholesterol every time I stick a fork in some cake. That's an eat a damned salad room if I ever saw one. Not a very good idea at all, Babydoll." Ezra Graham sauntered up to the kitchen island, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek. "Came down for a beer. You two are mighty handy with each other, lately, hope I'm not interrupting anything."

Hannibal, glaring at Ezra Graham with barely contained murderous intent, opened the refrigerator door and walked away. Ezra raised a brow at him and snatched up a beer. He opened up the cold bottle of Blue with a twist of the cap and tossed the metal bottle cap onto the counter in front of him. Will watched it roll and clatter before resting logo side up. "The freak got out today, it's all over the damned news. Making Mona real scared. That Abigail's a weird one, ain't she? She don't care at all, in fact she seems to think it's kind of funny. Her dad's a right mess over it. She told me flat out she figures he'll kill him, and she shrugged over it like it was nothing. Weird, weird kid."

"I wouldn't be so judgemental," Hannibal tersely said, concentrating on washing the leeks in cold water at the sink. Bits of dirt poured out of the centre. "We all deal with trauma in different ways. As I recall, you tend to create some of it yourself, your attitude towards Marcus is deplorable."

Ezra seemed slightly cowed by this and Will gave Hannibal a questioning look, one that was answered with an 'I-Know-What-I'm-Doing' response.

"The kid was way out of line," Ezra said, and took a gulp of his beer. "Nobody calls me an ignorant son of a bitch at a dinner table and gets away with it..."

"You attempted to bring up a subject that is not only untrue but extremely hurtful, and he had every right to chastise you for it. It's clear you didn't learn your lesson the first time and now, again, you have to hammer in your very unwelcome, ignorant point. Insisting I trapped Will into marriage is hardly a way to pave a healthy relationship with your grandson. The facts are, you don't like Marcus because his birth severed the hold you had on your own son. You feel like I have stolen him from you." Hannibal turned on him, chef knife poised. "I think it was a theft worth implementing. Regardless of what has happened in the past, Will and I are very happy now. You're just going to have to accept that."

Ezra raised a brow at Hannibal, who was surprised the man didn't back down against his firm reasoning. "I hear Jimmy Price was lurking around here earlier. Neighbour saw his car in the driveway."

Will watched as Hannibal chopped at the leeks with more force than was necessary, the thin slices sliding off of the edge of the cutting board. "He stopped by to let me know that Frederick Chilton has been officially released. A courtesy call."

Ezra cruelly laughed at this. "Is that what they call it these days? Guess that has a more polite ring than 'booty'."

With that mic drop, Ezra walked out of the kitchen and headed back upstairs, leaving Will and Hannibal alone together once again. Hannibal sighed unhappily and Will slid onto a stool at the kitchen island, his elbows perched on the surface as he balanced his chin beneath clasped fingers.

"You had an affair with Jimmy Price."

"Apparently I'm still having one," Hannibal said with a disgusted grimace. "He was hoping to have a little rendezvous of sorts when he visited this afternoon. Don't worry, I sent him away."

"Considering the incredible universe altering events that have happened to keep us together, I believe I should expect some exclusivity." Will smiled at Hannibal's discomfort. "He lied to me about that yesterday, but I figured he was." He frowned, thinking on that conversation. "We still have Abel Gideon to worry about. He's the mastermind in this whole Chilton fiasco, and I have to wonder what he's planning. That kind of madness doesn't just walk away, he had years to torture Chilton and now that he's got him released he must have some other scheme up his sleeve. I'm not liking it."

Hannibal hummed in agreement. He added the leeks to the ingredients sizzling in a rondeau as well as a large splash of white wine to deglaze it. He added the chopped vegetables and stirred the contents adding a small amount of homemade stock before covering it with a large lid and lowering the temperature. "We should probably just kill Gideon. Or rather, could you do it? Maybe tomorrow morning? A good whack in the back of the head with a hammer, they'll assume it was Chilton, of course."

Hannibal said this with such tired boredom, Will was taken aback. "But killing people is your passion."

"It was." Hannibal sighed in tired resignation. "Odd as it sounds, my heart's just not in it. I never realized the responsibilities of family life could be so taxing on one's emotional resources. I wanted to kill your father several times today and had ample opportunity, but the effort was just too daunting. Besides, Mona adores him for some reason, and I couldn't bear to listen to her screaming, I have a terrible headache as it is. Honestly, Will, by the end of the day I'm just too tired to do much more than drink wine and collapse with a good book."

Will gave Hannibal a good once over, noticing his pallor and the way he kept pressing his fingers against his brow, a very slight sheen of sweat meeting their tips. "This condition of yours is really getting to you," Will observed. "When is your next appointment with Bedelia?"

"Next Friday. Other than sparking interest from you, I honestly don't see the point of Omega heats. They make me feel like I have the flu, how is this conducive to lovemaking?"

"It's not. It's geared towards advertising your fertility. You're the doctor, you know that enjoying the act of making babies is not always the rule of nature."

"You enjoy it," Hannibal said, a tad bitter.

"I do, but I admit, you're getting a little sickly sweet for me. Your body chemistry is a little off, it's like a constant trigger. I thought getting blue balls before was uncomfortable..." Will broke that train of conversation abruptly, he was already feeling a renewed sense of arousal that he didn't particularly want to have at present. "Business is currently booming, I take it?"

"I have a very early, busy morning ahead of me, Will, I have to truss up Tobias Budge's mother into some semblance of attractiveness. She makes an exceptionally ugly corpse, and I daresay I understand this current Franklin Froidevereaux's dislike of her, even her unanimated husk projects extroverted misery. There's a permanent scowl on her brow, one so deeply etched it will take quite a bit of sculpting to ease it off. I'm afraid if Gideon is to be eliminated, it will be your chore."

Will shook his head. "I don't have time to go chasing after Gideon, I'm helping Marcus arrange his trip to Lithuania. We're planning out his route to the Lecter castle and his starting point itinerary. He's leaving in a few months and he needs this all ironed out, he's got the money in the bank for his plane ticket. After that I'm driving Abigail home and Hobbs wants to have a BBQ tomorrow afternoon. You're invited as well, of course."

"I have *funerals*, Will. I have to stuff and preserve meat, not char it. And really, you are continuing with this ridiculous plan that our son has embedded in his foolish head? You can't possibly allow him to traipse around Europe calling himself Moses, the boy needs a serious injection of ambition."

"It's his decision, Hannibal."

"I suppose you are going to give me some tired excuse, some ridiculous argument geared towards him 'finding himself'. He's an intelligent boy, one whom I believe possesses much of his father's empathy. You're going to just cast him off and turn that loose onto the world, leave him flailing in his imagination."

Will rolled his eyes at this. "Marcus is not at the mercy of his mind like I was. He has grown up in a stable, fairly happy home with a father and mother who understand his gifts. He is clear headed and insightful, not prone to crazy."

"He wants to go to Lithuania to stay in that moth ridden pile of rubble that's ready to topple over into the ocean at the first sign of a harsh breeze. I do not agree with your analysis, Will."

The argument was cut short by a loud knock at the front door accompanied by a frantic pressing of the doorbell. Will left the kitchen to investigate at the same time Mona stomped down the stairs with lead feet, Abigail following softly behind her. She got there ahead of him, and their eager daughter whipped the front door open and there, standing in the frame and shivering with cold, was Mischa. She was brandishing a bottle of wine and Will noted she was already unsteady on her spindly, three inch high heels.

"AUNTIE MISCHA!!" The bleached blonde woman was snared into Mona's bear hug. "ARE YOU WASTED ALREADY? DAD'S GOING TO BE PISSED!"

Mischa staggered in, leather mini-skirt and mesh top doing little to hide her upper and lower assets. The large Rotweiller, Samson, slowly slobbered his way towards her and she bent over to give the ancient dog a small pat on the head. Her heels slid on the marble flooring a couple of times as she tried to walk across it, the dog in a similar state. "Jesus, you seriously need to put a rug down here in the winter. Someone's going to slip and break their neck on that damned floor." She brushed herself off and forced a large grin at Will. "Beverly's just parking the car. Hope he doesn't mind I brought her along. Is it true you're dad is here? Ezra is *here*?"

A sickening realization wound its way through Will's gut at this, one that was amplified by Beverly's cursing entrance, snow shaken from her carefully curled hair and smudged mascara quickly corrected with a swipe of her thumb. _'Oh my God_ ,' Will thought with a growing sense of absolute horror and he cursed his empathy, he cursed it with everything he had in him for putting the unbearable knowledge in his head.

_'They slept with that bastard. Both of them did.'_

"Yeah, he's here," Will said, and tried not clench his teeth as Beverly and Mischa collapsed over each other in a fit of conspiratorial giggling.

~*~

"I don't know why we didn't just eat at the dining table in the kitchen like we always do, you can hardly see anything in here, half the lights aren't working." Mona poked her fork at a white lump that she squinted over before she finally realized it was a potato. "Abigail said her dad's been dating some creepy Alpha guy who's got ripped muscles and has like this dragon tattoo thing on his back."

Abigail nodded at this as she picked apart a piece of soda bread, crumbs hitting her colourful plate of stew. "I mean, my parents were both Omegas and that's already kind of strange to some people, but now that dad's seeing this guy all his friends are going on about how he's wandering the sex spectrum and they think it's weird."

"We're all a bunch of weirdos, sweetheart," Ezra Graham cut in, and for once Will didn't feel the need to argue with him. The feeling was short lived. "Gotta wonder, though, how it was two negatives like an Omega made a positive like you?"

"Dad used a genetics bank. They spliced his DNA with an Alpha donor."

"Seems awfully complicated when all either of your parents had to do was use a turkey baster."

"Dad says Mom never liked Alphas or Betas." She gave Ezra Graham a smiling, demure look that was falsely innocent. "Or turkey."

Will grabbed his glass of wine and downed a good gulp of it, watching Mischa and Beverly intently, noting they were both vying for Ezra's attention, displaying ample cleavage whenever possible. He noticed Hannibal's increasingly tight grip on his knife and fork at this, his silence over the animated conversation at the dinner table speaking more than words could.

"Seems we're missing one more at the table of our happy little family," Ezra said, obliquely to Abigail but more to the group at large. "Jimmy Price was too busy hunting down Chilton, is that it, Babydoll? He was here this afternoon, you'd think he'd have gotten an invite."

Hannibal furiously tensed at this and shot Ezra a nasty glare, one that put his continued existence in this universe into serious question. But it was Mischa who went on the attack at this, her head shooting up in sudden seriousness, Ezra's roving eyes forgotten.

"What do you mean? Jimmy Price was here?"

"He was simply letting me know that Frederick Chilton had been released," Hannibal said.

"Yeah, real convenient excuse. I thought you said he was never coming back here."

Will was surprised by Mischa's sudden anger at her brother, only to quickly realize that yes, she knew all about the affair with Jimmy Price and thought Will was still in the dark. He gave Hannibal a raised brow and Hannibal gave him a micro expression of confusion in answer. Mischa dug into her meal with a sudden forceful anger, her fork piercing the meat as though she wanted to stick the prongs in Hannibal's arm instead. "I don't get how you can let that guy in here, it's absolutely stupid him hanging around like that, when he has no damned reason--Right, big brother? No fucking reason at all to be here. None!"

Mona and her brother Marcus exchanged glances of their own at this sudden outburst. Abigail watched the entire thing with a sense of benign boredom. "Aunt Mischa, FBI Agent Price was the one who saved mom's life, he kind of has a reason to drop in once in a while, especially with that crazy jerk on the loose now." Mona picked at her stew and her brother remained stoically silent and in agreement across from her. So much wasn't being said, they were all suffocated from the weight of innuendo and ignorance that perversely hovered in the air above them like a thick mist. "It really bugs that me that you guys keep talking about stupid shit and you don't dare bring up *that*."

"Mona, please, don't curse at the table," Hannibal softly admonished her.

"If you want to talk about it, we can discuss it later," Will offered. "As for Mr. Price, I don't think there's anything strange about his concerns, though maybe it would be better if he called first."

"Sure thing, that way he can make sure you aren't at home," Ezra Graham weighed in.

Will glared at his father, who was amused by his son's anger and actually chuckled over it. "Dad, I don't appreciate this. Hannibal and I have a very strong relationship, no matter what you think, I am not taking off and hiding my head in the sand just because some deranged lunatic has been freed from his cage. Chilton had a very specific modus operandi, it is highly unlikely he is going to attack us now."

"Well, seeing as how the whole thing left Babydoll barren, can't see what he'd be looking for, it's true. Pass the salt there, will you Mona? Little light on the seasoning, here, could have used more pepper, too."

It was a low blow, one that was meant to hit that alternate version of Hannibal hard. Will cocked his head and let out a sigh of impatience that cut through the darkness of the room like a well honed knife. "We have two beautiful children, and that is more than enough."

But the tension at the other end of the table remained palpable and Will was shocked to note that Hannibal had stopped eating, his knife and fork gently placed down on his plate, his body drenched in ugly shadows. The former killer's mouth was a twisted line as he gruffly said, "Please, excuse me," and, to Will's further shock, Hannibal held his hand to his mouth to hide his displeasure, his eyes a glossy black from barely held in tears. He got up and marched from the table with resolute steps that echoed through the chapel and out its doors, a choked sob escaping as he stomped through the empty front foyer.

"You're a fucking prick," Marcus shot at his grandfather, and threw down his napkin, his chair scraping as he left his dinner untouched and stormed out of the chapel's dining area, his fist loudly hitting the lid of a coffin on his way. The hollow ring of it set the disastrous tone of their dinner into clarity.

"You gonna let that boy talk to me like that?" Ezra shot at Will, who could only give his father a long suffering roll of his eyes.

"For fuck's sake, Dad," he said, and he likewise left the table, the gloom too much for him to bear.

~*~

He found Hannibal in the kitchen, plating up chocolate trifle between his sniffling, the concentration shaky but not lacking in his usual hyperfocus on detail. Little sprigs of fresh mint and fanned strawberries completed the beauty of the plate. He looked up at Will with slightly red rimmed eyes and ducked his head as though embarrassed. "The prolonged heat I keep experiencing is making me overly emotional," he said, trying to keep the tears he'd shed into a realm of cold scientific analysis. Will wasn't fooled one bit.

He slid up behind Hannibal and wrapped his arms around the taller man's waist, hands splayed across his tensed stomach. "You wonder what it was like, don't you? Every minute of the day. It crosses your mind, lighting along that fever, a nag of memory that you desperately want to possess but have been denied. If we have in fact died in that tumble over that cliff then this is a cruel purgatory for you, Hannibal. You were given the gift of creating life, but you've arrived here too late to enjoy the uniqueness of that experience."

Hannibal placed a warmed hand over Will's, his breathing deep as he forced emotions that threatened to bubble over down into that usual dungeon within himself. "It's a foolish notion to obsess over," he admitted. "But I'm fully aware that given the choice I would have preferred a large family. I think you would have liked that, too."

Will pressed his face into the back of Hannibal's neck, breathing in the overly sickly sweet scent of his heat, a kiss planted there despite the equally syrupy taste of his skin. "Yes," he agreed.

"And now we are forced to contend with the fact we have arrived at that time when they will be leaving, and this massive structure will become more our tomb than our home. Can you imagine them as small children, Will? Have you placed the magic of your empathy upon the corridors of this house and heard the laughter that must have bounced across its walls?"

He had. Late at night while Hannibal gently snored beside him, Will had explored the hallway and the living room in the confines of grey half light, the ghosts of past joys lingering in the air around him. He found a closet on the ground floor that held all of their Christmas decorations, and he'd envisioned all of those delighted mornings, ones neither he nor Hannibal had ever had the chance to enjoy in that other, ugly life. He had wondered if that other Hannibal was as skilled in the kitchen as this one, and reasoned he must have been since no one found his current meal's elaborate attention strange. He'd thought about dressed turkeys and Christmas dinners that had to have been legendary, part of a family history that could be recalled with fondness.

"My memory palace is filled with the impressions of the world, Will. Sights and sounds and tastes, tactile remembrances that can recall the feel of silk upon stone flesh, the gentle lilt of an aria performed in the open air in Rome. I would trade them all for the sound of the screaming first cry of either of our children."

Will nuzzled the back of his neck and kissed him lightly behind his ear, sending a shiver through Hannibal at the pleasure of his touch. "We'll make new memories. The past has been destroyed, Hannibal. This place is about our future."

Hannibal hastily wiped any residual evidence of his upset from his cheeks and balanced several dessert plates along his arm and in his hands. "If you could clear away the dinner plates, I will deliver dessert."

"Of course."

With practised elegance Hannibal made his way back towards the chapel, Will following him, only to pause, armfuls of chocolate trifle helplessly clutched close to his breast as he witnessed both Beverly and Mischa putting on their coats. "Mischa, please, it was a momentary upset, there is no need to escape the table!"

"I'm sure you went through a ton of trouble, you always do," Mischa said, holding her hand up. "Beverly and I have both decided this night is a wash. Everyone is just too upset, and this whole Chilton thing is dragging the night down. I've already got enough bullshit happening overseeing the plans for the new balcony section at the Opera House, my nerves are at their end." She gave Hannibal a huff of frustration and stomped from one heel to the other. "I sound like a selfish bitch, and I am. I'm worried sick, Hannibal. You want me to sit there and pretend like everything is okay and it's not. Fucking Price was here? For fuck's sake."

She turned and Beverly sheepishly followed her. "The food was awesome," she shrugged, and with that they both disappeared behind the large oak door, its finality shutting closed behind them with a gentle click.

Angered and more than a little rattled, Hannibal retreated back to the kitchen, Will helplessly following him. "I am not having an affair with that man!" Hannibal insisted, "And even if I was, what business is it of hers to judge me! I saw the looks Ezra was giving both of them, as if she is so innocent!"

Will wasn't sure how far to tread in this fight between siblings, so he steered clear of it, taking the plated desserts and placing them covered in plastic wrap onto the shelves of the refrigerator. "Ezra didn't go home with them, so I'm guessing that whole adventure is off."

"Small mercies," Hannibal snapped.

"Marcus is pretty upset, and so was Mona, I should probably go upstairs and talk to them."

Hannibal snatched a wine glass from a cupboard above Will's head and filled it to the brim with the red liquid from a fresh bottle he'd tore out of the door of the fridge. He took gulps instead of sips. "Let them sort it out amongst themselves. They are nearly adults, after all."

Will was about to argue this, to say that Hannibal was wrong and their children needed their guidance and reassurance now more than ever, especially with Ezra's poisonous influence in the mix. But the front door opened with a decided slam, making both men jerk in response. Giving Hannibal a frowning look and earning question in return, Will slid away from the kitchen island, Hannibal cautiously following him.

There are certain unexpected things that can happen in one's life, not the least of which is falling from a great height, expecting death, only to be plunged into an entirely new universe. Another strange injection is that of past enemies suddenly vibrant and alive and seemingly about to stay that way. Funny how life can throw a thing like that at you only to shatter all your expectations.

Will was thinking this as he saw the trembling form of Frederick Chilton in their front foyer, soaked to the bone from snow and ice and dripping onto the marble flooring. There was a terrible racket piercing down the large stairs leading up to the second floor, Mona's iPod stereo blasting Rob Zombie and shutting all of her parents' problems out. They could barely hear Chilton over the din.

"I didn't do it!" he shouted, and Will could only give him a tired nod in agreement. "You have to believe me!"

"No one believes you are guilty, Fred," Hannibal replied, shaking his head.

But Chilton was determined to make his plea. He was terrified and remorseful for sins he'd never committed, and he wrung his cold, red, wet hands together, explaining Gideon's involvement, his apparent hypnotism, his will not being his own under Dr. Gideon's instruction and now...Now he was set free and had no idea how to cope and all he wanted to do was what he'd set out for in the beginning, to protest his innocence, to beg of forgiveness for an act he'd never done, to be heard...

"Fred, honestly, I know all this," Will said. Behind him, Hannibal pressed his fingertips to his forehead in weary exhaustion, his headache still plaguing him.

Fred lunged forward, and, as one would expect on a wet, slippery polished surface, his feet careened out from under him and since he'd got a near running start he was airborne for exactly .987 seconds. When he hit the ground it was the back of his head that broke his fall. It smacked loud enough against the stone surface to make the scant pictures on the walls clatter.

Will and Hannibal stood silent in front of Frederick Chilton's immobile body. A thick pool of blood seeped out from beneath his head in a halo that was broken up by the puddles of water he was lying in. Hannibal held his hand at his open mouth and Will could only stare in mute silence at the unexpected scene.

"I had no plans at all to kill him," Hannibal said, as though choked by wonder at this development.

"An accident. Dammit. What do we do now?"

"Obviously, you get rid of the body."

They both looked up to see Ezra Graham standing at the top of the stairs, looking down at them. He chomped a thick cigar and gave Hannibal a backwards nod. "Don't just stand there looking pretty, get a mop, Babydoll. And you." He turned on his son. "Don't you even look at that front door. No escape for you this time. Go get an old sheet and we'll wrap him up and get him downstairs before the kids get curious. Come on, don't stand there looking stupid, the two of you...Get your asses in gear and clean this mess up!"

~*~

"I suppose we could just incinerate him."

"There's a certain symmetry to that idea, my dear Will, but I'm not sure it's the right method. I wouldn't want to raise questions as to why I turned on the crematorium late at night."

Ezra Graham paced and growled at their indecision, and Will had to wonder how it was that even Hannibal could feel like an amateur in the professional killer's presence. Ezra was all business, killing wasn't an art project like it was for his son's spouse. "Just wrap the sheet up tighter and grab his feet and we'll pop him down the morgue. It's not like there isn't plenty of damned storage down there. Babydoll, you're missing spots, and you need to change the water. Add a bit of bleach so it don't turn the marble pink. Fuck's sake boy, grab the ankles, I'm not staggering around screwing up my back!"

The late Frederick Chilton was brought into the chapel and then taken to the small elevator, the three of them crammed into the tiny space as Will's thumb brushed the floor marked 'B'. Getting him into the morgue was an easy task, the chilly room already prepped with two bodies on slabs, one of them the late Mason Verger and the other Tobias Budge's angry mother. With heaving muscles, Will and his father managed to balance the body in their grip as Will opened one of the small body drawers. The slab was pulled out and Frederick's cumbersome body was slapped on top of it and rolled back in, the door closed and hiding him from view. At least, for now.

Will's bloodstained hands gave him flashbacks of that other life, and he gave his father a hooded stare before heading for the nearby sink to carefully wash it all off. His father, of course, didn't have a drop on him. Ezra Graham, as has been said before, was not a hobbyist but a professional.

The small, sterile workroom was thick with his father's cigar smoke, which seemed to pour out of his mouth like fog. "You know, son, you're a lot better at this than you used to be. Used to get all nervous and hot and bothered, thought you were going to get cooties or some shit off the dead, I don't know. But you're doing all right, I have to say. Killing a man and having a good place to store him until it's time to get rid of him...You did all right marrying Babydoll."

"We didn't kill him," Will said, scrubbing his arms with soap that bubbled pink. He used scalding hot water, his arms reddened as he got the last of the blood off. "He slipped on the floor and hit his head."

"Yeah. Right." Ezra chuckled. "Should have passed on the family business to you after all, kid. It's not like you don't have a penchant for the dead."

"I'm not like you," Will said to him, sneering. "I'm not a heartless monster. I don't...There's no artistry to what you do, it's just emptiness, it's all about money and nothing else. You don't care about anything, least of all who you kill and why."

Will made a motion to leave and Ezra Graham put a strong hand on his shoulder. He regarded Will with narrowed eyes, his cigar chomped thoughtfully. "Damned right I only looked at that kind of life for money. What are you talking about, son? What other fool reason would there be to kill your fellow man?"

Will shook his father's hand off and, with twitching disconcertion, he made his way back to the main foyer using the stairs leading up to the chapel. They were both at the altar when the echo of loud voices hit them, the front foyer a sudden amphitheatre of unexpected drama.

Will ran to the chapel doors and opened them to see the source of the argument standing in front of Hannibal with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a wavering free arm seeking his paramour's waist. "I'm sure I saw Gideon drop Chilton off, that piece of shit is here, and I'm gonna fuck him up, I'm gonna kick his ass. It's gonna be me that takes out the trash. You know why? Because that sorry ass son of a bitch you married hasn't got a clue what he's got."  
  
Jimmy Price took another swig of whiskey, emptying the bottle and letting it fall to the ground where it spun and rolled across the marble floor. Hannibal still had a mop in his hand and he was using it as a barrier against Jimmy's amorous advances. "I'm not interested," Hannibal curtly said. "I'm sorry, Jimmy, but you need to go home and sleep it off. This is not the place for you."

Jimmy's face was rubber, melting into all sorts of grimacing misery as he reached again for a very reluctant Hannibal. "I kept you warm when he left you in the cold...Just one kiss. One more. You can give me that, can't you?"

Sometimes Fate can be a real jackass. Will figured it was having a hell of a belly laugh at their expense, especially with the way FBI Agent Jimmy Price attempted to drape himself over Hannibal and took a misstep in a puddle when he looked over his former lover's shoulder and saw his husband standing there in the chapel entrance.

Down Jimmy went. Hard.

The whole house shook with the crack.

The trio was quiet a long moment, and Will could already feel his muscles ache and the annoyance of his father at his back over how this was now a big fucking mess, killing FBI agents was damned sloppy business. But thankfully, Jimmy Price moaned, and everyone breathed a sudden sigh of relief.

Hannibal placed the mop in the yellow wheeled bucket at his feet. The tiny wheels squeaked as he pushed it against the wall and then ever so slowly, ever so carefully, he made his way across the freshly washed floor to the prone form of Jimmy groaning atop a wet bed of bleach and suds.

"I think I broke my hip," Jimmy managed to say.

Hannibal crouched down and gave the man a thorough inspection before turning back towards Will and Ezra Graham. "Yes, Jimmy, I do believe you did."

Will's head shook as he stared at the scene, bleach stains already ruining Hannibal's good trousers. "We need to get one of those winter mats," he said, nodding at Jimmy's pained misery. "The ones with the rubber backing. Maybe even a runner, you know, to the door, maybe."

Ezra Graham stood behind his son, glaring a hole into the back of his head like this entire fiasco was all his fault.

"I take it back, you're a goddamned idiot," Ezra said, and with that took off upstairs, cigar smoke trailing after him in long, angry grey lines.

 

 

 


	8. Wedgewood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some problems find a solution, while another still lingers. Memory is a strange, strange thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Oh dear. Poor Will. But really, is such a run not the truest test of a person's love? If he won't take care of you when you feel absolutely gross, he isn't much use when you're at your best.)
> 
> I'm sorry this has taken so long to update! As you probably already know, I've been sidetracked by 'Tenderized' which is, as usual, a plot monster, and--dun Dun DUUNNNN! I got a new job! I also catered a friend's wedding solo so that was pretty challenging. It is nice to be back in the land of the living, though.
> 
> This story will be wrapped up nicely within a couple of more chapters and then it's onward to complete 'Tenderized' before the year is out. LOTS of plot bunnies are attacking, and I need to get to the unfinished drinks before I can get another pint! :P
> 
> Thank you, everyone, for your patience. I hope you enjoy this chapter! Comments adored and craved! :D

 

 

YOU ARE NOW ENTERING GATE #12  
chapter eight

Snow fell in gentle waves from the black sky, coating the front porch and Hannibal's Bentley in a soft dusting of purest white. The myriad footprints dug into the snow were quickly filling with the gentle flakes, obscuring the drama of the evening. Despite having a morphine drip administered via IV and still in unbearable pain as he was strapped onto the gurney, Jimmy Price raised his hand and gave Hannibal a weak wave goodbye. Hannibal returned it with an equal measure of exhaustion as a paramedic shut the ambulance doors closed. He crossed his arms as he watched the ambulance slowly amble out of their driveway, Price's exit from their lives one of significantly diminished suspense. Will stood beside him, sliding an arm around Hannibal's waist as he yawned. "My dad's upstairs with the girls. You have a busy day tomorrow, you should get some sleep."

Hannibal stiffened. "I want that man out of my house."

"Hannibal..."

"I mean it. Tonight. I do not want to see his miserable, know-it-all, cigar chomping, hillbilly gormless, sanctimonious, whoring face or I will, most definitely, carve it off of him and feed it to Samson."

The elderly dog slowly lifted his heavy head in whining question and then sank down again, sighing against the cool back entrance that led into their large backyard. Mona's hysterical laughter floated down the main staircase as Hannibal closed the front door behind him, a feeling of overwhelming hatred pouring over him at the thought of his vile father-in-law being in such close proximity to his children. Insufferable lout, he'd made a meal of far less crimes, the man's rudeness was untenable. It was a hard thing to compare that monstrosity with the soft, apologetic creature that was now tracing circles on the small of Hannibal's back, and he found himself leaning into Will's touch, still aching and hungry for it due to that constant, annoying aroused hum within his body. What was the term for it again? He could hear Bedelia's voice in his head, like cold ice with a strange mixture of drunken rancour. Heat. Yes, that was an accurate description for this constant fever that coursed through his veins, his body overdosing on ardour to the point it was making him nauseous. He felt exhausted at the thought of sex, a feeling that was made all the worse by the sudden appearance of Will's father, who was now stomping down the main staircase, guitar case and leather jacket and two pyjama clad teen girls in tow.

"BUT YOU CAN'T GO!" Mona shouted and Will visibly flinched.

"There's one golden rule you need to remember, Mona. A guest is a wonderful thing, and it's even better when they leave. Overstaying one's welcome is a capital offence. Love you, sweetheart, and I'll be back soon. Hey, you're getting old enough, maybe next time your daddy can drop you off at the swamp and you can spend the summer with me, fending off the 'gators."

Mona's kohl rimmed eyes widened to ridiculous circles at this as she stared down at her parents from her vantage point at the top of the stairs. "OH MY GOD, CAN I??"

"I..." Will couldn't find the proper argument and it was too spoiled a night to try to find it. "We'll talk about it later."

"CAN ABIGAIL COME TOO??"

"She'll have to ask her daddy, and I can't see why not, the more the merrier, I say." Ezra Graham hesitated as he looked up at her, a crooked smile on his weathered, but handsome, face. Hannibal remained tense beside him, but he noticed the way the broad shoulders slumped, the thin, harsh lines of his jaw working hard over words he wasn't sure how to say. It was a strange posture to see in the man and Hannibal revelled in it, hoping to draw it out and bring more of that self torture to the fore. But Ezra Graham was a stubborn protector of his feelings and he caught Hannibal's pointed stare. He stepped back, eyes narrowed, and Hannibal could practically feel the scalpel that was Ezra's finely tuned assessing vivisection.

"Tell Marcus I feel real bad over what I said earlier. I was a real piece of shit. Your momma deserves more respect than that. Babydoll works real hard for all of you, I get that. Ain't easy being a full time caretaker for your daddy and all. Needs some kind of medal, I'd say."

Will instantly bristled at this, and Hannibal gave him a warning look against using this as a springboard for a new argument. Ezra's words were the closest thing he understood the man was going to give them by way of apology and there was no point stoking a fire out of dead embers. "Much as we have differences of opinion on many matters, and have somehow not as yet come to homicidal blows, we are still family. I appreciate your attempt at reconciliation, Ezra."

Graham Senior was still concentrating on Mona. "Your brother got some real interesting ideas and I think it's just fine that he wants to travel the world some. Walking across that vast horizon known as Earth did just fine for Moses, ought to do something for him, too." He tipped his hat to Hannibal, his guitar balanced in his grip as he stepped across the threshold and out into the blustering snow. "Too cold in these here parts. Come on down and swim with the alligators with me some time, Babydoll." He narrowed his near black eyes on the sparkling marble floor, so polished it reflected Mona's confused face within it. "I get the feeling the you'd be able to do the breaststroke in that swamp of mine just fine."

~*~  
It never used to be so exhausting planning and murdering someone, the spontaneous appetizers of peripheral damage annoying tidbits that he always had to reschedule and plan menus around. Beverly, poor dear, he hadn't liked having to kill her, she was sharp and intelligent, as was Miriam Lass, whom he'd spared, just barely. Despite what Jack Crawford would tell you, you couldn't say Hannibal was all bad. She'd just lost an arm, that's all. And sanity. And several years of her life to a fugue state. Planting the thought that Chilton was her tormentor was a fascinating and successful experiment, and he was grateful to her for her usefulness. As for the brilliant Beverly, he'd given her a wonderful send-off, it had been a complex layering of Plexiglas and frozen flesh, and he would have cheated with plastination if he'd had the time. He'd made her body a puzzle box that was just as complex as the one she'd unpacked. But no matter, it was all just a strange quirk of fate now, and the bodies currently in the basement weren't even ones he'd killed. How very strange it all was. He found the longing he had for murder had changed dramatically in the face of all this work, and that which usually gave him a sense of excitement now offered nothing but this protracted, bored tiredness that spoke of chore. Dealing with Frederick's body was going to be a nuisance, and he had to ferret out a solution soon. Hannibal sighed and ran fingertips across his aching brow, the flu-like symptoms that were worsening overwhelming him.

He was currently in the ensuite of his bedroom, and he opened the medicine cabinet and took a couple of dry aspirin in a vain attempt to quell the symptoms. His skin felt clammy and, as always, had that awful sickly sweet scent, like he was dipped in a simple syrup.

Their children were still awake, and though it was a school night, Hannibal was in the mood to indulge their whims. In the living room, Mona and Abigail were wide eyed on the couch, watching a strange cartoon on large television screen that was, in Hannibal's opinion, far too close to the couches. After their grandfather had left, Mona and Abigail had quickly absconded back to the flickering light of the massive room, his son remaining pointedly absent. Downstairs on the main floor, Will quickly began putting away any remaining plates and food from dinner, a courtesy that Hannibal much appreciated.

Hannibal stepped out of his bedroom into the narrow hallway, past the long living room and eyeing the thin light beneath his son's door. He knocked gently on his son's door and earned a muffled bid to enter. Marcus was sitting in an office chair, his knees drawn up under his chin, all attention riveted to his computer. He was scanning discount travel flights and searching couch surfing blogs for points of interest to travel to on the cheap. Hannibal narrowed his maroon eyes at this, and a tiny spark of victory alighted within his heart. There were no fixed points in his journey. Lithuania was still a thought, not a cemented reality. His son was clearly open to other starting points.

He smoothed his palm across the back of his son's head and kissed the slight part in his hair. Marcus had the same razor straight, silken sheen as his mother, the tendrils of hair as fine and slippery as thin streams of water against Hannibal's lips. He imagined what it was like, holding him when he was baby, and kissing that same crown. A sudden memory, one he knew he most definitely did not have, erupted out of one of the rooms in his mind palace, and Hannibal nearly reeled as he could see, feel, hear and touch every nuance of his son. It was as though he'd been given a pure map of mind and flesh, both pulled from his very tendons, making them taut. He could suddenly feel everything. The weight of him in his arms. The scent of him as he pleasantly gurgled and nuzzled his tiny face hard against Hannibal's breast.

"Are you okay?"

Hannibal discovered he was holding his grown son in a tender, maternal grip, his lips still resting in the fine silk of his hair. "My child," Hannibal said, as though he was finally truly believing it. "Have I ever told you how precious you are to me?"

"Every time you bitch at me," Marcus replied. He sighed and curled his hand around his mother's arm, leaning into the embrace. "He's gone?"

"He is, and he vaguely apologized."

"He's an asshole."

"Yes. He's also family. I'm afraid nothing will change either of those things." Hannibal rested his forehead against the crown of his son's head before reluctantly pulling away. "Are you hungry? You didn't eat much at dinner."

"Nah. Are you sure you're okay? You got a fever."

"A minor ailment. Nothing to worry about." He pulled away, and lingered in his son's doorway, feeling a sense of pride in his son's actions that night, how he hadn't backed down from his grandfather's insults, how he'd leapt to his family's defence. His cool, reasonable, highly perceptive son who knew exactly when to say enough was enough. They would not always agree, but Hannibal understood his son would kill for his mother if he was pushed to such desperation. He had no inclination to test that theory, knowing it was true was enough. For now. There was something of himself within the boy after all.

Hannibal smiled. "Goodnight, Marcus."

"I love you, mom," his son replied, not looking away from his computer, and not seeing how those words hit Hannibal as fiercely as though he'd been sliced across the throat with a lino knife.

A foolish smile still on his face, Hannibal caged it beneath his long fingers and entered the living room where Mona and Abigail were curled on the couch, still silently watching a very strange cartoon. The flutter of happiness Hannibal felt at his son's words dissipated at the sights and sounds before him, the macabre spectacle a rather gory fairy-tale that made about as much sense as a Salvador Dali painting.

_"I...Love...It...When...The red water...Comes...Out..."_

"Mona, what on Earth are you watching?"

"It's a Salad Fingers marathon, Mommy, you love this show." Abigail made room and Hannibal sat between the girls rather stiffly, uncomfortable with the strange, childish yet horrific images colourfully traipsing across the screen. "You missed your favourite part, he already scraped the rusty kettle."

"It feels...orgasmic..." Abigail said, in the cartoon character's strangely stilted voice and Mona collapsed in giggles. It looked to Hannibal like an overripe avocado with insomnia.

He placed a warm hand on the back of Mona's head and kissed her forehead, liking the way she giggled and squirmed out of his grip, embarrassed to be shown affection in front of Abigail. He imagined she'd been a fussy baby, prone to anger and railing against the injustice in how she'd been brought into the world. Mona reached for the bag of chips on the table in front of her, the long, red scar on her arm sending shock waves of memory through Hannibal's being. His little baby had been hurt on her way out into the world. It was no wonder she was so sensitized to everything around her.

"Are you okay, Mr. Lecter? You look like you got a fever or something."

There wasn't a trace of real concern in her words. Abigail, sweet Abigail, still so much like that other manipulative monster in training he knew so well, who he had taken from them in his fury against Will's betrayal. She had never been innocent, and neither was this one. He wondered if Garrett Jacob Hobbs had an inkling of how dark his little girl's heart really was. He doubted this version of the man understood it. Murder had touched him negatively. He wouldn't court it save for revenge.

'I'm fine, just fighting off a small bug, that's all."

"Mommy, you've been looking sick all night. And not just because of Papa. Is it true, though? Can I really go to Louisiana and visit next summer?"

No. Never. But Hannibal wasn't going to tell her that. "I'll think about it," he said, instead.

"OH MY GOD ABIGAIL THIS SUMMER IS GOING TO BE AMAZING!!"

Hannibal pressed the heel of his palm to his head and gave Mona a tight smile at this before getting up and kissing both her and Abigail in turn on their foreheads. "Goodnight, girls. Please don't stay up too late watching this nonsense, Mona, it is a school day tomorrow."

"I love you, Mommy," Mona said, waving him off, and Hannibal felt a renewed kick in his gut, his hand instinctively pressing tight against his abdomen, in that place where she had been so cruelly wrenched from him. His precious, beautiful, eccentric daughter--Would he dare put Abigail in that equation as well? There was no harm in it, the two girls had been in each other's lives since infancy.

Goodnights given, Hannibal wearily made steps to his bedroom, his only thoughts for a shower and then bed. He was sure Will was going to have his usual amorous intentions, ones he would have to politely, but firmly, brush off. He was sore and felt inwardly grimy, and nothing Will did was going to make him feel properly sated. His abdomen cramped, his skin tender. The last thing he wanted was to be manhandled.

He practically staggered into their bedroom and, heedless of the fact Will was already there, Hannibal entered the ensuite and turned on the taps for the shower. He tested the water for a good few minutes until it was the proper temperature he liked. Once satisfied, he yawned and took off his tie before working on the buttons of his shirt. Will stood near the toilet, and he was oddly silent as he looked on Hannibal, not in a way that suggested he wanted to join him, but more in his usual, arms crossed, whose-flesh-is-in-this-stew kind of expectation.

Will grabbed the edge of the waste bin near the toilet, picking it up and shaking it at Hannibal. "Explain this!"

Hannibal audibly groaned and fought the urge to roll his eyes. "I don't know what you expect me to explain."

"Those are tampon wrappers."

"I'm a doctor, Will, you don't have to tell me what they are..."

"There's thirty of them in here. I counted. This bin was empty this morning. Mona and Abigail said you kept coming in here on the hour, was it because of this?" Will shook his head, the waste bin tossed to the floor, a barrier between them. "Hannibal, I'm certainly no doctor, but even I know that it's not normal for *anyone* to go through thirty tampons in less than a day! What the hell is going on?"

Hannibal stared at the small yellow packets in the waste bin with a mixture of embarrassment and shame. "This body I'm in has birthed two children, William. Nothing about this life we've found ourselves in has any resemblance to normalcy. Our bodies are shaped in an alien sexual mosaic, the people around us are in wholly new personalities with shuffled influence upon our lives. My mind palace is now full to bursting with useless knowledge and every day is a fine dance of personal physics to keep from falling between the cracks of expectations. Our children watch cartoons of a creature obsessed with rusty teakettles and screaming headless infants..."

"Salad Fingers, it's hilarious, and you're changing the subject on purpose. You're sick, and you need to go to the hospital."

"That won't be necessary."

"Seriously, Hannibal, how would you know?"

He had a point. "I am trusting my instincts, which have served me well in that other world as I'm sure they will here. I don't know what's happening, it doesn't feel life threatening and I'll just have to make another appointment with Bedelia. As for why I used so many of them, I...I'm...Gushing slick like a tap. I had to change my trousers twice this morning, and those slick pads proved useless. It's revolting and embarrassing, please, I don't want to talk about it. I want to shower and go to bed."

"Why didn't you tell me you were having these symptoms?"

"Between your father's rudeness and Fred's unexpected demise, not to mention Price's broken hip, the subject didn't seem as important to broach." Hannibal snatched the waste bin from Will's grasp and placed it back beneath the counter where it belonged. "I will see a doctor when it's appropriate. The timing is not optimal, I have two funerals to enact tomorrow. This isn't a career path of lofty intellectuals stroking one another's ego, Will, I have an actual, physical job to do, and unlike other professions, I can't just walk away on a whim."

Will crossed his arms at this, giving Hannibal a level glare. Hannibal didn't like the scrutiny, a fire burning within Will that reached outward and set little flames alight on the many complex branches of Hannibal's psyche. Will stepped closer and Hannibal had the strange urge to take a step back. He fought against it, remaining in place, his shoulders braced for whatever challenge Will was about to throw at him next.

"That is the real reason why you became a psychiatrist. Being a surgeon was too time consuming. If you went missing, people noticed."

"That and a rather high mortality rate amongst my patients, yes. I changed careers to maintain a good reputation. The ruse worked very well, as you know." He placed his hands on his stomach, the strange softness of it and odd folds of flesh around his scar irking him. "And now I am forced to concede that the knowledge I'd acquired is pointless. Our physiology has many stranger components than the already confusing aspects of what we understood to be 'normal'. I have no understanding of what this re-arrangement of hormones and reproductive systems does to the rest of the human body. I will need time to study it. I don't know if my past knowledge will be of any help, we don't yet know if there are other changes within our physical systems that we haven't discovered yet." He gave Will's close proximity a dour expression, and dared to nudge him into an embrace. He sighed into the way Will kissed his offered neck, a thrill coursing through his spine. He closed his eyes and rested his cheek on Will's shoulder. "I had two memories today, of our children. I held Marcus in my arms when he was an infant, the memory so vivid I could see, hear, touch and smell every aspect of it as though it had been planted in my mind palace. It was such a beautiful feeling, Will. I admit it was fleeting, and I can't help but still chase it. I had one of Mona, too, as a fussy little baby who was difficult to please. I don't imagine much has changed."

Will lightly chuckled at this and gave Hannibal a light kiss which he responded to as if it were a delectable treasure. "We have their bodies, I guess it only makes sense that our brains are wired to hold their memories too. It's all over their neurons, all that information locked in the cells of their grey matter and coursing through our bloodstreams."

Hannibal shifted his cheek on Will's shoulder, and delighted in how Will held him a little tighter. Subtle differences were evident in Will's body that he hadn't yet detected, such as how his muscles were more defined, a scent of overwhelmingly good health pervading his every pore. He didn't have the same nervous tremors as that other Will Graham, his body more assured and confident, expressed in the strength of his grip.

"Do you think we will eventually be eroded away, who we were replaced by these beings who sidestepped every measure of tragedy both imposed and created?"

Will smiled against Hannibal's temple, and kissed the taut flesh. "We can hope."

He pulled away, a soft caress finding Hannibal's cheek as he offered another gentle kiss to his lips before stepping out of the tiny ensuite. "Have your shower. Since you aren't feeling well, I'm not going to reach for you tonight no matter how tempting you are. Just make sure you see a doctor as soon as possible, okay? Make that appointment with Bedelia. Promise me that, Hannibal."

"I promise," he said, and meant it.

~*~  
He lay awake in the middle of the night, Will snoring contentedly beside him, the cat named Tiger in the middle offering Hannibal gentle purrs as she noticed him stir. He stared at the ceiling, his arm wrapped behind his head, soft comforters and pillows doing nothing to alleviate the constant unease he felt over his increasing discomfort. He shifted his hips and felt another squelching cramp within him. He hadn't had time or inclination to research much of what his new physical body was capable of or how it could break down, for even if it did offer up mind blowing sex it was still awkwardly different from what he understood about himself. Gender had been superfluous to the rush of murder in that other life. Will's companionship destroyed that particular barrier long before the fall.

Other matters were adding to his stressful night, for there was still the small problem of Frederick's corpse, now laying in wait within his workroom. Tobias Budge's mother was still on the metal slab, waiting to be lifted into her cheap, plastic pink coffin, a monstrosity against good taste that he hoped Tobias would be too grieved to check for quality. Frederick felt like a loose end, and if there was one thing Hannibal hated more it was not having his schemes tied up prettily in order to make room for others to branch off from them, where he could follow their path to a hopefully unexpected outcome. So far, Will Graham had been the only one to provide sustenance for that particular hunger.

He was uncomfortable and he couldn't sleep, a solution to the Frederick problem so obvious he couldn't waste any more time in inaction. Careful not to disturb his bedmates, he earned an angered gaze from Tiger as he pulled off the covers and slid on his navy blue dressing gown, the belt tied loosely around his waist. Bare feet kept his steps light as he left the bedroom, but not before chancing a glance at the sleeping form of his husband, who was contentedly snoring into his pillow. A sudden memory of being wrapped in warm flesh, skin on skin as they discussed their future hit him like a sharp scrape within his mind and he found himself reeling against that gentle happiness, unsure of what to do with it. He crept out of the room, closing the bedroom door behind him, his own cat feet taking him through the rest of the house.

He paused in the entrance to the living room, the flicker of the television catching his eye. He smiled as he saw Mona and Abigail both asleep on the couch, and he turned off the TV before pulling out a couple of beige knitted throw blankets that were folded on the matching winged back chairs in the study portion of the extra large room. He draped one each over his daughter and Abigail in turn, effectively tucking them in for the night before heading back out into the dark, narrow hallway.

He was still feeling queasy as he softly made his way down the long trek to the basement, the familiarity of it sending a renewed thrill through him. He had no idea he'd be so keen to work his magic upon the dead yet again, only in an actual legal capacity this time. Considering the burden of time and family, the corpse itself would have to take on his artistry and while most would be samplings of mere mortal mimicry, it seemed there was some license for artistic freedoms. Mason Verger's corpse, for example, now laid out in his overwrought casket that loosely resembled a stable and had all the class of an Edsel, still sported his massive head wound. Hannibal had gone through great pains to ensure it was far bloodier and nastier than the original blow to the head, and instead left a gaping black maw for many a tabloid reporter to take nasty pictures of. The man had nothing in his skull in life, there was no need to continue to pretend he had brains in death.

He eyed the late Mrs. Budge's corpse before pulling out the recently deceased and still rather messy Frederick Chilton from one of the drawers in his morgue cabinet. He grabbed a measuring tape from a nearby table and checked his length, tutting over the fact he wasn't going to be able to get him into the coffin without some adjustment. He would have to get the bone saw and chop his feet off just above the ankles and bury them with him tucked into the side against his shins. Satisfied that he'd found a good solution, Hannibal tied on a rubber apron for the purpose as well as blue latex gloves and searched out his tools that were hanging in the chemical room, ready to get to work.

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that your whole fair maiden routine has been scrapped. But then, from the information I've gathered of you over the years, you have always been a practical person. Even when it came to who was in your bed. Always good to have a plan B, am I right Mr. Lecter?"

The familiarity of Dr. Gideon's voice did not disturb Hannibal, and if anything he found the man's intrusion into his personal space annoying rather than alarming. They'd been through far worse in that other life, and his appearance in Hannibal's workroom was giving him a heady sense of deja vu. That other Gideon has been insightful, even vaguely pleasant and he had been wholly delighted with their conjoined madness. This one's ambitions were far more pedestrian in scope, a search for money and fame to retire handsomely on. How dull this ordinary vanity was, even if it did take sixteen years to bring it to fruition.

"I'm afraid I have very little patience for your games at present, Abel," Hannibal said, and he liked the confused way the man looked at him at the bland familiarity. "Your patient was not brutally murdered by an outraged victim, sorry to say. He slipped and fell and hit his head on the slippery marble floor in my foyer. Instantaneous and unexpected. I had no intention to kill him. I can't claim the same for you."

"You have placed a rather unwelcome snag into my plans," Gideon said, nodding thoughtfully, and through his calm Hannibal had to wonder if, indeed, this doctor was just as mad as that other vicious murderer he had left in tasty pieces on his plate. "I was hoping to bank on either yours or Garret's hysteria. I had a whole lambasting of media influence on patient release planned, ready to paint Fred as the poor, unfortunate victim he in actuality was. Pathetic man, I never really liked him, but as a protracted experiment in the implementation of false memory, he was quite ideal."

A latent nod of admiration arose within Hannibal at this, for he'd conducted much the same experiment with Miriam Lass, with the exact desired effect. Perhaps he was being too harsh in his admonishment of Gideon's self serving needs, for certainly it took a great deal of patience to perfect such a long game to its completion. Hannibal knew this from his own experience.

However, Gideon had broken that most golden of rules, and what he had done to those pregnant Omegas in their moment of pure vulnerability was, without question, unprovoked and therefore *rude*. It was a grave unkindness to create the illusion of a serial killer to secure a good retirement package and professional accolades upon the deaths of newborn innocents. Had he simply killed random people on the street, Hannibal could give him some leeway, but not for his ugly abdominal scar, and not for the angry red welt that was slid from elbow to wrist on his darling little Mona's arm.

"I have to say Mr. Lecter, the years have been good to you, though I'm a little concerned about this sickly sweet scent you are giving off, and that glistening sheen on your brow. I'd chalk it up to a heat cycle, but there's something off putting about it, to be honest. You aren't well. I think you need to see a doctor."

"Your concern is noted," Hannibal tersely replied.

Gideon shrugged. "Or not. The point is moot. You've ruined my original retirement plans and the only thing for it is a killer on the loose. I'm a practical man myself, and yes, I also have my plan B. I'm afraid Frederick Chilton will have murdered you and his whereabouts are currently unknown. I'm going to blame one of the psychiatrists in my employ, Dr. Miriam Lass, for falsifying reports and skewering my diagnosis. She's probably going to go jail for a long time, and it's unfortunate because she's brilliant at what she does, but I'm afraid you've left me without a choice."

No, Hannibal agreed, options were no longer viable.

So, with his bone saw in his grip and fully charged, he was ready to duck the knife Gideon held in his hand and effectively chop off his head from his thick neck, a process Hannibal knew would only take seconds with the correct amount of force applied. Softness at first as it sliced through the main arterial vein and then, ignoring the copious spray of blood, a clever dip to ensure the rapidly sliding saws cut between vertebrae, neatly severing the spinal cord, and then following the body as it fell to complete the cut through the other side of his neck. A messy business, yes, but one that Hannibal had experience and confidence in.

Only he never got the chance. With a decided whack at the back of his head, Gideon went down, bringing Will brandishing a heavy brass cross he'd picked up along the way down from the chapel into view. Hannibal tried to hide his disappointment and Will rolled his eyes, gesturing to the small room they were currently crowding with both the living and the dead.

"Like you would have time to clean up the mess he would make."

"I suppose you are right, but it would have been so much more satisfying." He stepped over Gideon's collapsed body and pressed two slender fingertips against his neck, feeling the thrum of a strong pulse. "He's still alive. A heavy dose of tranquilizers will keep him in this state, I trust Beverly has some at her animal clinic and Marcus has the keys, they're in his coat pocket in the front hall."

Will groaned and ran his palms roughly over his face. "I guess you're in the mood to play, though if it was up to me I'd just kill him and be done with it. I won't be long, then. You want me to pick up anything on the way back since I'm out? We can forget about sleep, I guess. You want me to get you a coffee on the way home?"

"One cream, two sugars. And not that ghastly dark roast from the gas station, it's absolute swill, I'd prefer one from that twenty-four hour independent cafe on Mill St., the one next door to Hobbs' Organics." He placed a hand on his stomach and gave Will a guilty grimace. "And a trip to the all night pharmacy for another package of...Well, you know..."

Will paled at this.

"Are you seriously making me buy your tampons?"

Hannibal gave him a huff of frustrated annoyance. "It's not like this is happening on purpose, Will, I don't have control over what my body is deciding to do."

Will let out an exasperated sigh, one that clearly let on that he'd rather chop up a living man into tiny pieces rather than go on such an embarrassing supply run. He shrugged, helpless. "Any particular brand?"

"I don't know. Whatever I used before. Or...Maybe something more absorbent? I really don't know, use your discretion."

"Fine." He gave Hannibal a moist kiss on his cheek before he left, hands in pockets as he rolled his head from side to side, working out the last of the sleepy kinks in his neck muscles. The kiss left a tingling ghost upon his skin as Hannibal surveyed the scene left behind and he felt a tiredness he hadn't known before. Gideon's heavy body was going to be difficult to manoeuvre and he hated the thought of moving his already carefully constructed work on the bodies he'd been legally given. It was all so tedious this murdering and hiding bodies business. He still had the flowers to arrange and now the brass cross for his chapel had a dent in its base. The day's schedule was tight and he had to make sure the mourners didn't linger between funerals. He had far too much to do to indulge in this silly preamble.

He pressed the back of his gloved hand to his hot forehead and got to work. It was going to be a terribly long, early morning.

~*~  
The sun was rising, sending the sky into a purple haze as Will entered through the back basement entrance, two cups of steaming take-out coffee in hand along with one of Hannibal's favourite beignet pastries. Will set a small plastic bag on one of the empty slabs and began emptying it of its contents. "You can have the coffee because you need it to stay alert, but I got you some Gatorade. The pharmacist said you need it, you're probably dehydrated thanks to all that excessive slick. I got you the super absorbent ones, this is the brand he recommended." Will snatched up his coffee and thirstily sipped at its hot contents before turning back to a stunned Hannibal. "I had to ask him, we don't know what's going on, but he did. He said you probably have cysts, that's the usual culprit, and it's not life threatening, usually, but since you've been producing this much slick it has to be seen to as soon as possible. He said you're losing a lot of fluids and sugars, and you have to keep up your strength and not to forget any meals or overexert yourself. He did say if you start getting any really painful cramping we have to go to the ER right away, it could be a sign of a rupture. I got you some acetaminophen for the fever, and he said if that keeps up or gets worse you have to go to the ER right away as well since it indicates infection."

Hannibal stood pale in the middle of his workroom, his rubber apron still on, his blue gloves stained a brilliant red. "You discussed my condition with the pharmacist?"

"How else was I going to know what tampons to buy? Hannibal, come on, this is hardly Victorian England, it's not a big deal to know how your mate's bits are supposed to work. I'm glad I asked, the guy was a wealth of information. I got you some candies too, he said to keep popping those until you see the doctor, keep your blood sugars up. Apparently, slick is comprised of mostly water and partially broken down glycerol, which is what makes you so tasty." Will gave Hannibal's stricken face a smirk and kissed his open mouth, scenting him with coffee. "You nearly done here?"

Hannibal, still annoyed with how easily Will could talk to a stranger about his medical ailments and yet couldn't be open about simple feelings _(Oh, I would have run away with you after all, Hannibal, no need to go to all that Teach Me A Lesson bloodbath and all. I just needed five minutes to digest your mindset and I would have speed dialled Travelocity...You needn't have spent all that time licking your heart's wounds with that ice queen Bedelia and ticking off the minutes before you turned her into pork roast.)._ He gave the late Mrs. Budge's face a tired inspection. There was definitely too much rouge on her cheeks, but she was a rather choleric person in life and the blush of anger would no doubt be something Tobias Budge would appreciate. He couldn't get the frown lines out no matter how much sculpting he performed on the flesh, and as a result he left her scowl in place with some added paint to accentuate her disapproval at death.

"You did do a good job, I think he'll like it. What are your plans with these extras? Anything I can do?"

"Yes," Hannibal said, getting to work with the bone saw at last and moving past his husband until he was next to the slab Frederick Chilton was laying in permanent repose on. "I need you to throw down a rubber mat in the foyer. I have enough work to do, I don't need any more casualties."

Hannibal sipped at his coffee as he contemplated what cuts he was going to give to Fred's shins. The thought of chopping him up was making him giddy, even if the fact he was here was accidental. This was delightful work, and Hannibal was reminded of the incorruptible, saints waxen and mummified beneath glass as they spent their unspoiled repose in ornate shrines, granting the wishes of those who dared to brush fingertips across their clear coffins. He wondered what it would be like, chopping up a saint into tiny bits and freeing its twitching, fractured soul from the service of humanity. Probably very much like the foot he was now severing from Fred's leg, and making the man a good three inches shorter than the stout woman with osteoporosis with whom he was about to share a crowded eternal sleep.

"Show time isn't until nine, you can maybe sneak a power nap in before you get fully set up." Will gave him a soft kiss on his cheek, and Hannibal wanted to sink against his cool skin, his own so feverish it felt like cold water would make it sizzle. "I saw the latest schedule, it's Tobias first thing and then Verger's burial this evening. Do you think there's going to be lots of paparazzi around here tonight? From what I've read up on him, Mason Verger was something of a tabloid joke."

"I'm thinking of putting glitter in his empty skull," Hannibal said.

Will laughed at this. "If you think that's going to punish him, guess again. This Verger was just as much of a tacky creep, he would like that." Will frowned, his knuckles gently rapping the closed cabinet door behind which Dr. Abel Gideon was shouting muffled curses. "What are you plans for him? Nothing to do with our diet, I hope. I'm not so inclined for human bacon these days."

"Nor am I," Hannibal assured him. He pressed a bloodied palm to the side of Will's face, the cooled blood smearing in clotted clumps against his chilled skin. Fred's feet lay in a pile next to his knee. "You are a fervent distraction, my love. Leave the depths of this project to me, you have been involved enough."

"Sharpening finer points when you have always been good at polishing the surface." Will kissed him again, on the lips this time, sending a thrill of temptation through Hannibal's groin that ended with the usual unwelcome cramping. He pressed his bloodied palm to his side, earning more worry from Will.

"Bedelia," Will said, shaking his finger at Hannibal as he left to go upstairs, and Hannibal nodded. He'd leave a voicemail and hope he could get an appointment within the week.

He was at last alone, Dr. Gideon cursing him from his cabinet prison, fists pounding against the steel sides. He could scream all he wanted. Hannibal knew this room was soundproof.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	9. Royal Crown Derby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two funerals and a hospital. Didn't they make a movie of that, once?
> 
> This fic will be wrapping up VERY soon. Just an epilogue for chapter eleven to go!

 

 

YOU ARE NOW ENTERING GATE #12  
chapter nine

There was no question. Hannibal was sick. Weak, pale, feverish and viciously cramped, his skin feeling clammy, his own scent overripe and unpleasant, but this was not the time for him to be incapacitated due to the whims of his unusual biology. Hannibal had work to do.

The first order of business was the funeral of Mrs. Martha Budge, Tobias Budge's mother. With Chilton tucked beneath her rotund frame, she was slightly more elevated than usual within the cheap plastic coffin and it was definitely going to be difficult closing the lid when it came time for cremation. Luckily, this happened away from the weeping of mourners, and though Hannibal would have preferred to bury her and thus charge for the added costs of tombstones and plot purchasing, Tobias had insisted on cremation so he could place his mother in an urn next to him at his bedside. It seemed Franklyn wasn't to be free of her after all, in fact, she was to become far more intrusive into the intimacies of his strange life.

People were already gathered within the chapel, and Hannibal gave Mrs. Budge's scowling form one final once over before stepping aside for the minister to take over the service. A tiny puddle of red seeped out of a crack in the plastic coffin's corner, an unfortunate bit of damage that leaked Chilton's bloodied stumps, just below where his feet had been. Using the heel of his shoe, Hannibal discreetly pushed a potted plant near the hole, neatly disguising both it and the steady drip of stale blood with the thick, dark green foliage of the fern. He gave the minister what he hoped was a friendly nod and the smile he was given in return told him he'd faked it properly, and Hannibal walked to the entrance of the chapel, where his son was already dressed in a suit and tie, morosely greeting the mourners still arriving.

Tobias Budge and Franklyn Froideveaux arrived with a flurry of snow billowing behind them, Tobias in an obvious state of crumbling grief while a more practical Franklyn held him up. He pawned the soon-to-be sociopath murderer off on an aged aunt, who tutted over Tobias's weeping and assured him, in firm, possibly familiar tones, that, quote: "Your Mama loved you dearly but she had to go to on up to...Well...She went somewhere, Tobias, don't think about it too much..."

Franklyn nodded at Hannibal who made a small gesture to meet with him in his office, away from the small crowd already gathered in rapt attention in the chapel, waiting on a sermon that the minister had no doubt rotated through several times that month. Though he was dressed smartly, he had the air of a car salesman, and the thick application of aftershave did not hide the scent of whiskey from Hannibal's sensitive nose. He watched the minister sway a little at the podium, and he knew he was gripping the sides in an effort to remain upright and not for preaching emphasis.

He opened the door to his office and both he and Franklyn stepped in. Hannibal wore a black suit with a grey silk blend beneath it, his tie of an equally sombre shade. Franklyn was stuffed haphazardly into an ill fitting suit, the buttons straining around his wide girth, wild hair untamed and frizzed, matching his equally unkempt beard which did not at all hide the grimace lurking in all that hair. "That coffin looks awfully short. How did you manage to get her in it?"

"It was a tight squeeze, the confines of the display model are a tad crowded," Hannibal admitted. He bid Franklyn to take a seat as he sat on the other side of his desk and called up Franklyn's account on his computer. He printed up the bill and handed it to Franklyn, who didn't even give it a quick perusal. He was frowning as he looked on Hannibal, the grimace twisted into something that might, on that other Franklyn he had known, have been concern.

"You really don't look good," he said.

"It's a flu," Hannibal said. "Unfortunate timing, but one must persevere."

Franklyn ran his hand over his jaw, and kept looking over his shoulder at the partially open office door, as though to seek out Tobias. Hannibal knew where Franklyn's real concerns were. "He will not detect the difference, Mr. Froideveaux, I can guarantee it. He is overcome with grief, and that is what is taking priority."

"The scowl was a nice touch, I was worried you were going to smooth it out. Tobias would have lost his shit." Franklyn smoothed down his tie and Hannibal had a momentary, nervous tic at the image of Daffy Duck staring back at him from the thin fold of rectangular silk. Franklyn noted his disdain and gave him a shrugging apology. "I run a comic book store, I don't wear suits and I sure as hell don't wear ties. I snagged this on my way out this morning, Tobias and I had a big fight about it in the car on the way here, so just...Don't bring any attention to it, all right?"

Oh he most definitely was. All the better to deflect the shoddy, overpopulated condition of Mrs. Budge's coffin. He wasn't entirely sure the thin plastic was going to hold that much weight within it for much longer, especially with that worrying crack in the corner hidden inexpertly by a plant. Hannibal gave him a curt nod, and Franklyn took out his chequebook, writing him the amount for the services rendered. He added a twenty dollar gratuity, Hannibal noted. Cheap and gauche.

"Is there any way I can stick around and watch her burn when this is all over?" Franklyn asked, surprising Hannibal with his ire. "Honestly, that woman made my life hell. I was never good enough for her precious Omega son, oh no, he was supposed to go to Julliard, not hang around some dusty music shop, teaching grade schoolers how to strangle violins. If there's an afterlife, the devil's got something coming to him, no hellhound hath half her fury."

Hannibal couldn't help but be amused by this, and he gave Franklyn a strained half smile. He had a pain in his side, and he sighed and pressed his palm against it, earning a frown from what had once been his most irritating client. "You really are sick," Franklyn said, shaking his head. "I...Look this is real personal and all and you can kick in me in the nuts if you find it too weird for me to say so, but Tobias has, well, he has issues with his..parts. We couldn't have kids, and I guess that's why he loves teaching them so much. His mother blamed me, of course. I wouldn't bring it up, but, the way you're holding your side like that, and the look on your face, it's the same expression Tobias gave me just before he ended up in the ER."

"It's just a flu, Franklyn."

"Cancer." Franklyn said, and Hannibal was starting to see the little notes of that other, irritating marble of a man rolling around in the bloated suit before him. "I mean, I know I shouldn't be telling you this, and it's not exactly a cool thing to be throwing around the 'C' word, but...Tobias ended up in the ER and that's what it was, they had to take it all out. He got real depressed, and it's not like he could tell *her*." He caught Tobias's tearful large eyes, and gave him a grim smile, a tiny gesture of support Tobias alighted on, only to have it marred by Hannibal, who made a very clear point to frown as his gaze roved over Franklyn's inappropriate tie--unbeknownst to Franklyn, of course. Tobias angrily turned back to the pulpit, where the minister clutched his fists on either side of it, holding on for dear life as he spewed a sermon about brimstone and fire and Mrs. Martha Budge's unrelenting and uncompromising spirit.

"We met not long after I opened my shop." Franklyn's voice was wistful, and he sighed, his thick hands deep in the pockets of his navy blue slacks. "He kept buying old issues of Weird Tales. He liked the blood and gore, especially the ones that were pre-censorship, really hard to find these days. He told me he appreciated the aesthetic. We have that in common." Franklyn shook his head, half listening to what the minister was rambling. "This guy, Pastor Glenn, what an ass. He's wasted, and everyone knows it, but oh no, pillar of the fucking community, can't say shit about a man of God no matter how much he stinks like a hobo with a dead liver. Listen to that crap. 'This GOOD GOD AFEARING WOMAN'. Bullshit. Angels feared to tread, let me tell you. If it was up to me I'd be pulling out his vocal cords and using them like a violin, that screeching would make more sense than this." Franklyn caught Hannibal's shocked gaze. "Yeah, that was probably a bit way too off the cuff. Look, thanks for the favour, I appreciate the discount. If I hear of anyone ready to kick it--Sudden heart attacks and late stages of the Big 'C'--I'll send 'em all your way."

Hannibal watched carefully as Franklyn, nodding politely to the various relatives gathered in the chapel, approached Tobias in the front row. Tobias snatched at his Daffy Duck tie and renewed argument threatened to spill over the inappropriateness of Franklyn's attire. But Franklyn quickly smoothed the ill feelings over with a handkerchief applied to Tobias's damp eyes and cheeks, and a pudgy arm draped over his hunched shoulders. There was genuine affection there, Hannibal was surprised to witness. He had to wonder who, exactly, was going to be bringing him more business in future, and was disconcerted to know that Franklyn himself had a shadow of darkness that ran just that little bit deeper than he had originally thought.

The rest of the funeral continued without incident, though Hannibal had an unexpected issue with the crematorium. Burning plastic was never a good idea and toxic smoke billowed out of the chimney in greasy, throat burning poison. The ashes would be delivered to Tobias tomorrow, the expensive urn sealed and containing much more than the remains of his difficult mother. She would be bullying Chilton within it for the remainder of eternity and Hannibal had to concede she was probably happy to have that kind of victimized company.

Marcus helped him empty out the chapel of donated flowers and cleaned up the debris of lost memorial cards and several candy wrappers from apathetic children, two of whom were Tobias's students. The pastor had leaned so heavily on the podium he'd warped it in one corner and Hannibal had to fiddle with screws to get it back in proper alignment. He followed his methodical son's lead, admiring the way Marcus knew exactly how to prepare the space as though by rote, his respect for his mother's business evident in his actions. Marcus gathered up a collection of orange lilies and brought them out to a separate storage area to lay in wait while the next batch for the next funeral arrived. Hannibal stopped him halfway, his warms hands framing his son's confused face, a kiss placed on the top of his head. "You are my greatest treasure."

"You really got a bad fever today, I don't think you should do this second funeral. It's that weird guy, isn't it? The one done in by the wrath of a lamb? You should go to the ER like that creepy fat guy said. I can do this for you, it's just set up and tear down, the gravediggers are taking him out to the family plot afterwards, not us."

Hannibal rested his cheek on the top of his son's head and closed his eyes, a surge of intense feeling rushing through him at the thought of this sweet boy being so protective. It was an innocence he had thought was forever barred from his life, and to have it back in this kind of blatant resurgence was a bit too much to bear. "Don't worry, Marcus, I'm fine. Your father will be home soon, and you can go to the BBQ at Abigail's house, I'll be there later."

Marcus frowned, his face framed inside of bright orange flowers, his concern smeared with yellow pollen that Hannibal brushed off of his sharp cheeks with the pad of his thumb. He opened his mouth as though to say more, only to think better of it and instead merely nodded, the flowers finally making their way to the back storeroom.

A sharp pain hit his side, and Hannibal pressed his palm against it, limping slightly as he made his way into the family kitchen to take out the salads he'd made for Garrett's BBQ. Though it was the middle of winter, Abigail's father was still enamoured enough with meat to challenge any blizzard against his top of the line Black & Decker inspired DIY brick BBQ complete with chimney. Garrett's passion for butchery took on a whole new level, in keeping with the violent, cannibalistic tendencies he had in that other world, the one that was very quickly receding further back into the far recesses of Hannibal's mind palace. No longer was he haunted by the sound of an axe finding its mark on wood. No more the rage that swelled and grew beyond the boundaries of his loathing until it spilled out with blood soaked vengeance upon the Earth.

Snoring loudly against the back door, Samson lay sprawled against the glass, a lazy remnant of Will's profusion of canines he had used as a substitute family. Tiger purred and curled around Hannibal's ankles as he searched for more condiments within the refrigerator, pausing as he took out two bottles of chilled chardonnay. Garrett was probably serving red meat. Only a shiraz would do.

The front door slammed open and shut and he could hear Mona before he saw her, dark hair wild and damp from gently falling snow, dressed in ridiculous layers of black clothing, none of them matching in hue. She jangled as she walked, her costume jewellery nearly dwarfing her beneath baubles and skull heads. She squealed in delight over her favourite salad being offered, along with the plans she had for watching horror movies well into the small hours of morning with Abigail.

"Homework first," Hannibal warned her. She grinned mischievously at him, her wine coloured lips leaving stains on her white teeth. Hannibal pointed at an incisor and Mona instantly began sucking her gums in self conscious worry.

"If you are spending the night at Abigail's I want you to make sure that have cab fare if you have to come home." Hannibal's voice was firm, and he gave a flustered looking Will a heads up as well. "Garrett has been drinking heavily, lately. I'm sure you will be fine, but just in case..."

"You'll never guess who Garrett's boyfriend is," Will said, moving behind Hannibal as he quickly began putting away groceries Hannibal most definitely didn't approve of. Sugary cereals, marshmallows and packets of instant noodles, frozen pizzas, hamburgers and buns made of processed white flour. Had he learned nothing of the importance of what one puts in one's body? "You could have sliced my head open and eaten my brains with a spoon, I couldn't be more shocked." Will paused and looked over his shoulder at Hannibal, who was now giving him a pointed glare. "A half-hearted, ill conceived attempt isn't the same as actually doing it."

"He's a tattoo artist," Mona said, pilfering a marshmallow. Her brother slid into the periphery of the conversation and took a handful of the soft white cylinders for himself. "He's got this sick ass dragon on his back, Abigail took a pic when he got out of the shower this morning."

"Francis Dolarhyde?" Hannibal said, eyes wide.

"The one and only. Guys, stop eating those things, there won't be any left for 'smores later."

"He's sleeping with him?"

"Abigail says they get noisy. It's gross."

"No arguing there," Will muttered, and grabbed an apple out of the crisper at the bottom of the refrigerator. He stood up and closed the door, rinsing off the golden skin before taking a hungry bite. "Why are you holding your side like that? Is it hurting? You know what the pharmacist said."

"I don't understand the logistics of this, Mona, Garrett had a wife, one he was very dedicated to and whom he lost to Frederick Chilton. How sure are you this relationship is what Abigail is suggesting?"

"Oh my GOD! You guys NEVER LISTEN! She only talked about it at dinner last night! He's an OMEGA and this guy's an ALPHA! He's gone over the fence for the other team, and all the OMEGA ONLY bitches he's friends with are PISSED! HOW DO YOU NOT REMEMBER HER SAYING THAT!"

"Believe it or not, Mona, Garrett Jacob Hobbs's sex life is really not that important to us." Will slid beside Hannibal and gave him an assessing once over. "How long is this funeral going to last? You look terrible, and you're burning up, and I don't like you clutching your side like that. Did you make that appointment with Bedilia?"

"Of course I did. I see her Monday morning."

"You should go to bed right after the funeral. Don't bother coming to the BBQ, I'll leave as soon as I can. Mona, seriously, you've just devoured half a bag of marshmallows, there's hardly any left now for later."

Hannibal shook his head. "I see no reason for you to leave. In fact, I would prefer to join you, this particular show shouldn't last any longer than a couple of hours. I'd love to know what version of the Red Dragon is gracing Garrett's table." He gave Will a wicked grin, full of teeth. "We could always have a rematch."

Will hesitated at this, not quite ready to treat that tragedy of his becoming as a joke. Their clueless children looked in with morose disgust as Will clutched Hannibal close and kissed his lips, lingering just a little too long.

"I'm about to puke vanilla," Mona said. Marcus had already left the kitchen, and was setting up the flowers that had arrived for the second funeral of the day.

Hannibal chastely kissed Will's cheek, purposefully earning another "Eww" from his annoyed daughter. "I will let you know when I am on my way. Oh, and Will..."

Will paused, arms laden with bowls of salad. Hannibal took the last four marshmallows out of the bag and quickly ate them, his cheeks puffed out as he spoke with his mouth full. "Pick up more of these on your way."

***

Mason Verger's death was every inch the tacky spectacle he would have adored, and it was this that made Hannibal feel sick to his stomach. He was not in the habit of pandering to the wishes of expired pederasts, though this version of Mason clearly leaned towards bestiality rather than human victims. The very thought of his slimy touch made Hannibal shudder in disgust, and with a final primp of the man's corpse's shoulders with a horsehair brush, Mason Verger was ready to be lowered into the ground where he would gradually rot into formaldehyde tainted dust.

It was now mid afternoon and the steady stream of curious onlookers and strange acquaintances of Mason Verger began arriving, not least of which was his twin sister Margot, propped up by her partner, Alpha Alana Bloom. It was clear from the way Margot wobbled on her heels that she was not overcome with grief but by the near empty whiskey flask she held aloft in her grip, her half closed eyes blinking unseeing at the various gawkers surrounding her. Alana, to her credit, took Margot's condition in stride as she approached him, but the waft of too strong perfume and a fierce pondering of his skin made him reel with nausea.

"She's so overcome with grief," she said, and raised a brow, knowing he was well in on what a joke that was. She dared to lean closer, Margot more of a prop, like a purse or a hat, at her side. "You're very feverish. I like it. Salty sweet. I bet that's how you taste, right down to your marrow and all your secret little caverns..."

"Mr. Verger's funeral is about to begin," he tersely replied, and Alana purred at his reluctance to join in her unwelcome flirting, his reticence making him a challenge he didn't want her take on. "As per his sister's instructions, I left the wound intact."

Cameras flashed in the chapel and there were murmurs of approval amongst the colourful paparazzi that had assembled around the coffin. Margot seemed to come alive at the hub of activity, her toddling gait nudging Alana away and into the chapel. Hannibal couldn't be more thankful, Alana's unwanted attentions were ferocious with pheromones, and Hannibal felt physically weakened by her presence, enough for renewed cramps to assail him. Though it had originally proved to be quite enticing, especially with Will's hands and mouth upon it, he was starting to detest his Omega body. Bad enough to be at the mercy of feminine products that were intrusive and messy, he had to contend with everyone having an opinion about his womb, namely it's medical attributes and its hormonal needs. If there was one thing he preferred to keep private in this world it was his parts.

Sick and clammy, Hannibal had the sudden thought that perhaps this body was outright rejecting him, as though his soul was an unwelcome interloper. His immune system was shutting him out, his womb twisting and squeezing every bit of life out of him until he was nothing but a shivering husk of watery sweat, slick and discarded human tissue soaked into the dark blue carpet of the chapel. Marcus gave him a sidelong glance, and Hannibal straightened, ignoring the sharp jolts of pain through his abdomen, and gave his son a warm smile as he patted his shoulder.

"What would I do without you?"

Marcus didn't answer and instead kept looking at his mother with that now familiar, aching sense of worry that he wished he could erase off of his son's face. He took long, careful strides into the chapel, where Mason Verger's religious affiliate--Guru Cordell Doemling who was still running a long con, this time as a religious cult leader who wore bright yellow linen shifts and a collection of colourful wooden beads around his neck that pretended to be Indian in origin but were dollar store rejects he'd seen his daughter purchase. Doemling chanted and stomped barefoot around the circumference of Mason Verger's coffin, peacock feathers in his grip as he implored Valhalla to take its master. It was the weirdest, most ridiculous hodge-podge of religious hocus-pocus Hannibal had ever been forced to witness, and the paparazzi were loving every bit of it. The charlatan was set to have a reality TV show by the end of the week.

Margot swayed in the front pew as Guru Doemling began chanting gibberish and pouring chicken blood from a used, plastic yogurt container into the hole in Mason Verger's head. Her eyes bulged and swam as she clutched close to Alana. "I'm hearing knocking."

Hannibal waited, listening intently, but Guru Doemling was now hopping on one bare foot and shaking maracas. It was impossible to hear anything over that din. Margot continued to squint as she tried to bring the entire ordeal into focus, the chapel still filling up with people who were more curious than in mourning. The constant camera flashes were doing nothing to alleviate Hannibal's headache.

"I swear I hear knocking."

"Margot, please, behave yourself," Alana hissed at her through her brilliant white teeth. She grinned as a camera caught them both.

Guru Doemling stood on the steps of the chapel, his arms and legs wide, the light streaming in from the stained windows behind him, penetrating the thin yellow shift he wore. The outline of everything his flabby Beta body had to offer was on full display, and Hannibal fought the urge to cover his son's eyes with his hands.

"Oh for fuck's sake!" Margot suddenly exclaimed. She rolled her eyes and broke free of Alana's grip, her staggering heels dragging her down the chaos of the chapel aisle, paparazzi following ahead and behind her as though she had just been rolled out of the red carpet. "You got your fill, you greedy assholes! Let's fucking bury this son of a bitch!"

Hannibal took a step. Faltered. Took another one as he opened the chapel door and allowed the visitors who had only just arrived back out into the foyer with a confused sense of apology.

"There's definitely knocking," Margot said as she passed him. She bit her bottom lip in worry as she tipsily made it to the front door.

But the frantic drama of Mason Verger's circus of a funeral was not set to end. With one final step out of the chapel, Hannibal felt the marble floor suddenly rise and envelop him, the treasured stone of sculptors wrapping him tight in its mineral prison as he fell inside of it. The staircase, the chapel doors, orange lilies and flashes of light collapsed over top of him. He felt his body slump, falling into an endless abyss. The worried blink of his son's eyes. The lingering feel of Will's touch on his skin. His daughter's laugh. His feet were out of from under him and all had collapsed into freefall and that horrible cliff had claimed him for its own once again.

~*~

He could hear them, disembodied voices of the dead calling up to him, accusations over-riding the purpose of his sins. He had gotten what he had always wanted, for the attention of that ignorant Deity that had for so long abandoned its most dedicated pupil. For all the evil he had wrought had been in an effort for that angelic grace to stop him, and he had laughed long at the knowledge that it had enjoyed his antics and couldn't wait to see what vile attempt at attention he was set to make next.

_"Hannibal."_

It was calling to him now, bidding him to join it at the precipice of Hell, where the waves rolled along rock strewn shores and dashed the souls of far lesser mortals than he. How foolish it was to think he was mere flesh and bone. His lower spine was crushed to powder, his guts dissolving. He clung for Will, but he was no longer in his grasp, he was far away, deep in the tunnel of that furious ocean, his transformation torn within the waves.

_"Hannibal, wake up. You need to sign this."_

He groaned, the waves dissipating, becoming calm water that eventually morphed into the shape of a person staring down at him, ripples still clinging to the edge of his sight. He couldn't quite believe the image of Dr. Bedilia DuMaurier staring down at him, and the gradual clarity of her presence poured over him in currents of confusion. He tried to sit up and was stopped by an unbearable pain in his side, and he closed his eyes against it, his breath gasping as he struggled. It hurt too much to attempt to shout.

 _"Sign here,_ " she said, pointing to a dotted line and offering him a pen. _"Marcus can't sign for you, he's not your power of attorney, and Will isn't here yet. You need to sign this or I can't do the surgery. Just put a mark on it, anything..."_

His hand shakily took the pen and the line where his name was supposed to go came into close focus. He managed to scrawl an 'H' and she nodded, taking the form away and giving him a wide smile. _"You're going to be fine. This is an uncomplicated surgery, and you're going to feel better than you have in years, I promise you."_

She leaned out of his vision and he tried to follow her, but the pain took over and he grimaced against it, his breath caught on its fury. Something was clawing him apart from the inside. It was doing all it could to kill him. He could hear people milling around his bed-- _How did he get here?_ \--talking in muffled tones and speaking medical jargon that had a vague familiarity. The whole thing should have been frightening but he'd long abandoned that feeling and was instead frustrated that he couldn't employ his usual detachment. He was alone and wavering in the dark, the waves still threatening in the distance. Where was Will? He wanted Will.

_"Mom?"_

Distant, as though he were countries away. Hannibal fought to find his son, but the pain created chasms. He could hear Bedilia's soft, carefully chosen words, gentle diction easing the destruction of broken wings. _"He's going to be okay. Go and wait downstairs, we're taking him into surgery now. Your dad's on his way."_

He wanted to protest, to bring his son close to him and insist this didn't happen, that woman couldn't be trusted, how dare she speak to his flesh and blood! He'd dismember her for this, he'd render her most prized limbs and make a feast of her for his family, how dare she!

But the cold water overtook him and Hannibal couldn't keep himself above it. He sank into the dark murk, the calm beneath the churning waves so absolute he felt as though he would never leave its comforting, velvet black embrace.

~*~

Will was the first face he saw when he woke up.

He wasn't worried, in fact he looked some odd version of serene as he looked on Hannibal, a small smile filled with comforting warmth overtaking the chill that Hannibal had plunged into. Confused, he brought a shaky hand up to touch him and ensure he was no mirage, and Will proved it by taking Hannibal's weak hand in his and kissing his dry palm with soft, hot lips. "You've been through the end of days by the look of you," Will said, and smiled into Hannibal's limp grip. "Bedilia said this all could have been avoided if you'd had this procedure done years ago, but I guess you had some emotional baggage you weren't too keen to get rid of. One that had the Dr. Abel Gideon seal of discontent all over it." Will sighed at Hannibal's continued silence. "I guess your counterpart had his own unhealthy ways of dealing with trauma. Not taking care of himself was one of them."

Hannibal suddenly realized what had happened, and a renewed feeling of sorrow suddenly overtook him. He choked on the words as they crept out of him like shards of broken flint. "She performed a bilateral salpingo-oophorectomy on me. She stole away what makes me."

Will frowned at this and shook his head. "Actually, the scarring was a lot worse than she'd originally diagnosed. You've had a full hysterectomy, there was no choice, Hannibal. The scarring had created a cyst in one of your fallopian tubes which tore it open. That's why you were in so much pain, why everything was such a mess, your body was going septic and considering your unique biology, it also played havoc with your endocrine system. You've lost a lot of fluid and sugars over the past few days due to the excessive slick, and you passed out because you went into hypoglycemic shock."

Hannibal closed his eyes, not liking the way Will was looking at him, as though some piece of him had been amputated and his usual otherworldly perfection had been marred. He licked his dry lips and Will immediately came to the rescue with ice water and a straw, his body bent awkwardly over the bed as he held it steady for Hannibal to take long sips. The water was refreshing, and with it came a sense that all the fears he'd had were finally laid to rest, that hope was what was already in place. Hannibal closed his eyes and swallowed before turning his head away. "Where are Mona and Marcus?"

"They are in the cafeteria, I wanted to be the one to see you first, to see how you were doing. I didn't want them to witness you incoherent, which can sometimes happen when someone is fresh out of anaesthesia." Will set the cup of ice water down at the side of the bed and placed a chilled hand along the side of Hannibal's face, gently stroking his cheek. "You scared the crap out of Margot Verger. She's been quoted on TMZ as saying, "I thought for sure there were going to be two funerals, and with Mr. Lecter being the official undertaker and all, it crossed my mind he'd be burying himself." The press is all over it, you're probably going to get a lot of business and unwanted attention all in one. Alana Bloom claimed to have given you CPR, but seeing as how you passed out from severe dehydration and hypoglycemia, I'd say it was just a ruse so she could cop a feel.

"Ugh. How very odd is her configuration, I'd never have guessed it.  She is an abomination, my dear Will. I'll have to block her, she'll be sending me more dick pics."

Will chuckled at this, and sat back more comfortably in his seat. He'd stolen one from the visitor's lounge in the outside hall, and had arranged it next to Hannibal's bed, the wooden arms close to the thick, tubular beige railings. Hannibal sighed and closed his eyes, content to have his husband so near, the fact he was missing parts of himself no longer a nag against his person. He had taken so much from others it was only fitting that which he'd been so fiendishly denied a full understanding of had been likewise stolen.

"Will," he said, his voice a harsh whisper that Will had to lean close to him to hear. Hannibal swallowed, and turned his head on the flat, hard pillow, his eyes trying and failing to fully bring his worshipful fellow monster into focus. "How did the funeral progress?"

"As far as I know, perfectly well," Will assured him. "Mason Verger is buried on a family plot on the Verger estate, as per the requests of his will. He's next door to the pigs. That's a Margot quote, by the way." Will dared to trace his fingertips along the back of Hannibal's knuckles, warming his skin with just the barest of touches and sending an electrified jolt of life through his being. "You don't need to worry. Everything is buried, as it should be."

Hannibal gave him a crooked smile, his eyes still closed. "We are monsters again."

"We are survivors against extenuating circumstances," Will corrected.

Hannibal chuckled at this. "There are many who would say the same thing. Tell me, Will, how is it we can have such a perfect life and yet it is still tainted by the sour notes of blood? It pulses beneath us, it is an intrinsic part of who we are, the sum of our souls shaped into the clay formation of a Golem. You are my twin spirit, one of monstrous proportions. Surely, you still feel that. The very rocks below couldn't stop us. What follows now? What patterns do we dare pull into existence, a reverb of the past or a kaleidoscopic bloodbath of a future? I do hope it is the latter, Will. For however much I love my family and you I cannot deny that the beauty of death has its thrall."

Will clasped Hannibal's hand in his, his thumb grazing against his wrist. "We seem to be in the perfect careers to keep those needs sated, don't you think?"

Hannibal's lips curled into a genuine smile at this. He opened his eyes and Will was also smiling down at him, wide open and keen to explore what the future had to offer. The sound of crashing waves was reaching far into the scant echoes of his memory. There was still darkness lurking for both of them, hoary hands of the dead outstretched and needy. But Will was right. Perhaps the constant presence of corpses in their lives would be enough. Perhaps the shaping of the newly dead would soothe the hunger Hannibal knew his soul would want fed.

"I love you," Will said, clutching his hand tighter.

Hannibal grinned, feeling victory. "Of course you do, as I you. We do not have a choice, dear Will. Destiny placed us here, again and again, into such a moment, where the denial of the other is impossible. One heart cannot beat without the other. I am your monster, and you are mine. The more we are together, in this strange portrait of perfection, an oil smeared American Gothic of our own, the more I love the potential of everything yet to be. I love you, Will."

Will's smile radiated a warmth that Hannibal clung to, its promise banishing all sense of snow, all axes that fell echoing fast into a nightmarish place that held no purchase here. He was home, in the grip of Will's hand in the soft, half light of blipping monitors and the blurry outline of clear IV bags that hung high beside his bed. Memories that were distant and fractured into that other madman's life tried to interfere and couldn't, the obscurity of what he was only thinly clung to.

"I suppose our second problem was taken care of?" Will asked, brow raised, brilliant blue eyes brimming with a satisfied mischief that a Will Graham, FBI profiler had never thought to indulge until Hannibal had awoken him and together they had slain a dragon.

"Yes," Hannibal said, his lips as wide as a Cheshire cat's. "In a most fitting plot."

Will let out a soft, happy sigh. "Amongst pigs, then."

"Yes," Hannibal said. His eyes followed every tiny movement of his beloved in the chair beside him, his weakened grip doing all it could to cling to him. "I hope that was all right."

Will's hand left his and moved down across his belly to trace the lower ridge of his abdomen, where an ugly scar remained, a crescent of injured skin and muscle that was a constant reminder of the fight Hannibal had endured to keep his family whole. He was the sole survivor. In a red line along the length of her arm, his precious daughter bore the scar of a very bloody battle.

"He deserves that and so much more," Will said, and he bent low to kiss Hannibal's lips, tasting the pearl of his teeth as he pulled away, ever so slightly, his forehead resting on Hannibal's in a gesture of soulful affection.

"Will." Hannibal swallowed back his emotion and caressed his husband's hair, his hand combing through locks and pressing against the contours of his cheek as he had those many years ago, under far more desperate, unhappy circumstances. "Are we still falling over that cliff?"

Will shook his head, frowning.

"We will never fall again."

Hannibal felt his heart pulse in tune with his husband's. "Never?"

Will's gaze was unwavering, filled with black rocks and tidal waves that rejected the shore.

"I promise you."

 

 

 

 

 

 


	10. Royal Grafton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You don't always know what's under snow.

 

 

YOU ARE NOW ENTERING GATE #12  
chapter ten

If she listens carefully, she swears she can hear it.

Snow covered the grave of her brother, giving it a sense of peace he would have found abhorrent. Mason Verger was a man of flash and destruction, and though he had placed his desire to be next to his pigs in his will, he had also specified that a prominent mausoleum be built to celebrate the largesse of his life and his influence upon the farm animals he so very, very much adored. Specifically the pigs, and further still certain ones he had named and had kept for breeding stock, though his use of the term was very loose indeed. It was quite a thing of irony to know he'd died while cheating on his favoured beast with a sheep.

The mausoleum would never be built, Margot was determined to ignore that request. Her brother's insane whims and sickening proclivities were enough to deal with in life and she wasn't about to build a monument to his stupidity in death.

She sometimes wonders if this was the right decision, and there were times just after Mason's funeral that she had visited his tender grave and heard that soft knocking she swore she heard at the funeral home, and then she would shake her head and step away, cursing herself. Leave it to Mason to pester from beyond the grave, begging more and more of her as he always did. He'd nearly bankrupted the company with his problems, and Margot and Alana had come to the rescue of the Verger empire, bringing it back to prosperity despite his mishandling of major accounts and his slimy scandals that even grocery store rags found disgusting. No, after a scant few days the guilty psychosomatic knocking stopped and Margot heaved a sigh of relief. It was just a grave, after all, filling up with worms.

She never visited it again after that first week.

But come closer, and you will understand that Margot is not just a whiskey soaked damsel with a misplaced sense of guilt. You would have heard that tap-tapping too, and in your far more lucid state and sober awareness you would have understood that what is beneath the earth is not always inert.

Freshly buried in his grave, Dr. Abel Gideon tries to shout, but his severed vocal chords make such an effort impossible. He is in a tight space, the rotting body of Mason Verger above him near choking him with its formaldehyde stench, the trickle of chicken blood seeping past Mason Verger's pillow and into Dr. Gideon's open, mangled throat.

There is no note of explanation, of course, no match to light the interior to tell him he is in the lower half of a gaudy coffin, set to suffocate in due time. Though the fate of the man is terribly cliche, he shall have several days to lament how his restful, rich retirement package had become so perverted in interpretation. It was the sort of contract a devil might construct. On the first half of the third day as all the air in the coffin finally fled and Dr. Gideon was left gasping like a suffocating goldfish, he had to wonder...

Maybe the devil had.

 


	11. Copeland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end! Aaaah, it's dripping with domesticity, who knew Hannibal could be such a marshmallow?
> 
> I want to thank everyone who has been reading this weird little thing, and if you tripped in here later, I hope you enjoyed it!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aaaaall about the fluff at present, clearly, even if it is a tad dusty and full of cobwebs. *sputters* These guys and their perpetual angsting!
> 
> You may have noticed all the teacups throughout this story, and yes, I admit, it was a lot of fun hunting them down :P. I have some collections of my own and I'm inexplicably drawn to them, like pretty flowers, and I can't wait to muck them up with good quality tea. I hope this fic went down with the same, delicate ease :D. Thank you, everyone, for reading and commenting! Shortbreads and Earl Grey for all!

 

 

YOU ARE NOW ENTERING GATE #12  
chapter ten

Hannibal dabbed the damp sweat from his brow with a handkerchief before tucking it into the pocket of his black suit jacket. Mid-July and the air conditioning in the main portion of the house had stopped working, repairing it an expense that would cut into the remodelling costs of the kitchen and en suite bathing room. Will watched his husband as he set up the flowers for the funeral procession set to arrive at any moment, his attention to detail one of finely cultured finesse and possessing his usual intensity. Soft peonies and forget-me-knots and a few well placed lilacs completed the piece which looked vibrant and refreshing when one walked in the front door, only to twist in shadows should one glance over a shoulder and find a floral skull staring back. Hannibal's artistry had become bold in the last few months, and as long as it remained in this harmless macabre vein, Will was content with his experimentation.

However, there were certain habits that were ancient in construction, ones that Will knew Hannibal would never truly abandon. With his glass of ice water in hand, downing it in gulps, Will watched, impassive, as Hannibal noted the wobbling gait of the elderly widow approaching the front steps and quickly, with a shove of his heel, put a dangerous wrinkle in the rubber backed carpet in the marble foyer.

Will sighed and marched over to where Hannibal was standing, and smoothed out the wrinkle before the door opened. He gave a shake of his head at Hannibal's guileless look. "How many times do I have to remind you that we don't have liability insurance?"

Will finished his glass of water as the elderly woman toddled in, shaky as a dried leaf in the wind and just as fragile. Business had been booming lately and they had few days off thanks to the gossip columns having a field day with the Mason Verger funeral where Hannibal finally succumbed to his illness and had passed out in front of dozens of paparazzi. His faint had gone viral, thousands of Internet memes coursing across social media sites and gifs on Facebook, 'Falling Down Dead' a phrase that brought knowing looks among the geeks at Mona's high school. She hadn't been adversely affected, thankfully, but then, who would mess with his mouthy daughter who would lambaste anyone who dared to try?

Summer had crept into their life like a slinking cat, and both Tiger and Samson had found a truce in the spots of sunlight that crept in through the back window and bathed the floor in warm gold. Will was back in the kitchen, not for him the weeping monotone of the grieving and the display of sombre concern that had to go with it. Will didn't give a damn about strangers. There were some old habits lurking within him, too.

He reflected that, considering the alternative, they had found themselves in an uneasy Heaven, one that perhaps they didn't deserve. He often wondered about that other Will and Hannibal, the gentle souls who were rocked by tragedy and had struggled to piece themselves together, who had raised two incredible children despite the background of marital strife. Hannibal had assured him that they were living in a world very similar if not identical to this one, save for different dinnerware or maybe a deletion or insertion of bland acquaintances who would go unnoticed. "The nature of a parallel universe is not one of vast difference, Will, though we have been shunted into such a one. An infinite number or worlds and possibilities suggests something as simple as a name change could create a whole other configuration. There are theories that these worlds overlap and invade us all the time. We are exceptional, Will, and thus was our travel here. But our counterparts...I believe they are simply living their life as they always have."

He wanted to be able to latch onto that reassurance, though there was no evidence to prove that this was true. Perhaps that other Hannibal had finally had enough of cowardly Will Graham's ways and had moved him out and moved Jimmy Price in. It wasn't beyond the realm of possibility.

He had settled here. Sharing his bed with Hannibal was oddly comforting, and though the operation meant he no longer had heats, Hannibal's flesh was most certainly still willing. Awkward beginnings had now become easy routine, Hannibal writhing in ecstasy beneath him as Will's knot found its mark at the base of his clitoris and its strong pulse rendering him wrecked in orgasm, unable to form words. He'd be in an incoherent daze by the end of it, rambling in Lithuanian and French, maroon eyes unfocused, body lazy and slack within Will's arms.

He enjoyed him in those moments, where honesty was the only purpose between them, skin on skin, Hannibal nuzzling the curve of Will's neck and kissing his throat. Hannibal had never been afraid of being affectionate, but Will knew the genuine purpose within the caresses, unspoken assurance that he was Will's to possess, as much as Will's soul was his to own.

He was thinking on this as Hannibal quickly entered the kitchen, the funeral procession now safely in the hands of the priest at the chapel, who was giving a familiar sermon on life and death that Hannibal was bored of hearing. Will gave him a soft kiss on his lips and smiled at Hannibal's eagerness to enjoy it.

"Is Marcus packed?" Hannibal asked.

"For the last two weeks, yes," Will reminded him. "Mischa called earlier, she's meeting us at the airport, so we won't have to pick her up. She's riding with the drummer of that punk hip-hop fusion band."

"The one with his Compton prisoner number tattoo 'ed on his forehead? How disappointing. My sister knows how to dig from the bottom of the barrel." Hannibal shook his head. "She's setting a terrible example for Mona. Our daughter looks up to her wild and free spirited aunt, we may need to place some boundaries in terms of her influence."

"I'm not sure if you've noticed, Hannibal, but our daughter is not a person you can easily tell what to do." He stretched and crooked his neck to one side, his vertebrae cracking. He'd spent the day before with Jack Crawford hunched over a grocery store dumpster digging through the refuse and picking out body parts, three in all. A leg, an arm, a torso. Identifying cause of death was going to be a bitch.

"Looks like someone left all the prime cuts!" Jack Crawford had exclaimed, and a dour Will didn't find the retort funny.

But thoughts of Jack Crawford's cheerful, good natured face had to be banished at present, for there was plenty that had to be done on this hot, stifling Saturday afternoon, and the fact there was a corpse ripening in the room next door and being wept over for a couple of hours annoyed Will no end. "I don't know why you took that one on, you knew this was a busy day."

"Saying no to someone's grief is not an option, Will. I am branding our family business on flexibility and assurance. Besides, the new air conditioner isn't going to pay for itself. I've had to put the latest customers on ice in the basement, and thankfully it's cool enough down there to work. I admit, it's been a challenge to keep the rot out this week, I've had to work around the clock to make sure they were properly preserved before I could even start on any of the sculpting."

Yes, the money had been coming in, Hannibal's macabre touches of darkly toned works of art now graced the walls in the main foyer, and there was decidedly more dark purple in the new wallpaper and assorted accents. The patrons didn't seem to mind the gruesome portraits of skulls and bones that braced the walls leading into the chapel, and Hannibal was once actually praised for creating a funeral home that was 'honest'.

Hannibal checked his watch. "The funeral will take two hours. Much as I would prefer to be in this kitchen, relaxing on this Hades inspired day, I'm afraid I'm needed to direct the traffic of the mourning. Please make sure Marcus has everything he needs, the last thing we want is to get to the airport and he's forgotten his passport."

"He's our son, Hannibal, he's not stupid."

"Tiny details are easy to overlook."

With that little snap, Hannibal marched back towards the chapel, leaving Will alone in the kitchen. He sighed and contemplated the empty glass before him, wondering if he should refill it. He shrugged and figured it didn't matter. He'd be sweating it out more than he'd be putting it in.

~*~

The Baltimore, Maryland airport was decidedly different from what Will remembered, the interior a busy hub of the usual straggling travellers going to international destinations, but the layout considerably more confusing. It had been redesigned by a man with more money than planning and the strange jigsaw of loading bays and staircases that led to every manner of gates made Will dizzy as he tried to interpret them. He took his son's boarding pass and grimaced at the tiny number in the far right corner that indicated where he was supposed to go. "Gate #12," Will said, shaking his head and staring up and down the long rows of numbers and letters that didn't match up. "Where in the hell would that be?"

Hannibal was busy drilling his son, his hands busy folding down the collar of Marcus's jean jacket and in between deep breaths he let out a slew of unwanted instructions. "Lady Murasaki is not used to young men of your energy and willfulness, so be sure to listen carefully to her wishes and to exercise the correct levels of decorum. No excessive drinking. No romantic trysts hidden in the guest room. Your great aunt is an exceptionally proper lady and you will not disappoint, is that understood?"

Marcus shrugged, and gave his mother a grimace of acknowledgement. Hannibal continued to fuss with his bag, opening and closing zippers, ensuring he had everything needed for his intercontinental journey that was set to take him to his great aunt Lady Murasaki's home, in France. Will found the whole display rather amusing, since the journey was built on compromise, with Marcus being convinced to visit the ailing aunt as both a family favour and as a method to quell his reckless concepts of wanderlust.

Hannibal had become very close to his children as the months slipped away from winter and entered spring and now alighted in a hot summer that made all of them want to melt. He would confess, almost fearful if Will didn't know better, that he had vague recollections of holding them both in their infancy, of a biological link that had become spiritual in proportions, a tug he could sometimes physically feel. There was no terrible, blood soaked crime he wouldn't commit for his children, and if it was the world or his family, Will knew exactly where Hannibal stood on that matter. He was relieved that Mona was still too eccentric and unapproachable to most of the boys at her high school, no matter how much Abigail tried to set her up--usually with boys who were anathema to Mona's difficult personality. He had the sinking suspicion that Abigail could soon become more of frenemy, and to prevent any slit throats from one over vigilant Mama he would have to watch how the friendship developed in future.

They were standing near a canteen that sold chips and paper thin hamburgers for exorbitant prices, and of course Mona was insisting on having the cardboard meal, much to her mother's dismay. "BUT I'M HUNGRY!!"

"Mona, you can wait until we get home, and don't give me that look you aren't five years old, you aren't going to waste away."

Mona gave her father a stricken look that instantly made Hannibal dismiss his attempt at discipline. "I know you are very upset that we are losing Marcus for a few months, but he will be back soon." He reached into his wallet while Will made helpless protests. "Here's twenty dollars. Get what you want."

"What is wrong with you?" Will said, shaking his head as Mona happily traipsed to the canteen, her brother following behind her. "The body is a temple, remember those days?"

"Pick your battles more carefully, Will, she's upset about her brother."

"So, just throw all sense of discipline out, then, right. Got it."

"I am not arguing with you about this here."

They were interrupted by the noisy arrival of Mischa who had a gangly, tattoo laden miscreant on her arm, his orange hoodie reminding Will of the prison jumper he was no doubt far more familiar with. Mischa hugged Hannibal and then ran up and hugged both Marcus and Mona, nearly knocking their heads together. "Oh my God! I can't believe you're taking off to France, it's only yesterday you were playing with Tamogotchis and using crayons! Here, put these in your bag." She unzipped his duffel bag and poured a heavy selection of mini bottles of vodka, whisky and rum into the neatly folded stack of clothes within. "You're gonna need this, Lady Murasaki is great and I love her to death but she can kill your last fucking nerve, believe me. Don't let her turn you into her indentured servant, she's perfectly capable of getting her own tea and if you want to go out and get wrecked with your new friends in France, just do it. Vick's lozenges, they work great for hiding booze breath."

Mona was munching on a scrawny hamburger, her eyes wide at Mischa's new boyfriend. "OMG, YOU'RE THE DRUMMER FOR 'MASSIVE HOMICIDE'! I THOUGHT YOU WERE IN PRISON FOR MURDERING YOUR MANAGER!"

The drummer flinched at Mona's outburst and Mischa came to the rescue. "Yeah, he's on a weekend pass. There's an armed cop escorting us, he's standing just over there, see?"

Mona's kohl encircled eyes were widened ever further as she stared across the narrow space between a flight of stairs and the canteen. A man wearing a police uniform sternly stared back at her. "OMG!" Mona exclaimed, hamburger still in mouth. "THIS IS SO COOL!"

Hannibal gave Mischa a withering look and she gave him a 'What?' sneer in response.

"I think I've figured out where he's supposed to go," Will said, and nudged Marcus along the various stairways until they came to one painted a bright yellow and green, 'International' painted in orange on every step. The entourage followed him, and Will made quick work of walking through several security doors, before they finally found one that chimed, in a sing-song voice that said in both English and French: "You are now entering Gate Number Twelve. Vous entrez maintenant dans la porte numéro douze. Thank you for flying France Airlines. Nous vous remercions de voler France Compagnies aériennes"

"I guess you check your bags over there," Will said, pointing the baggage handlers on the far right. He dragged Marcus's bag along with him, Hannibal following close.

Hannibal placed a hand on his son's shoulder, stopping him, and Will was likewise forced to pause. Without warning, Hannibal snatched his gangly son into a tight embrace, his face buried in silken locks so similar to his own. Hannibal pressed damp eyes against his son's hair, unable to properly speak. When he released him, he stepped away, holding his emotions in with tight restraint, leaving Will to deal with the practicalities.

"You know to call us if anything goes wrong, right? You need to come home right away, if you're in a tight spot. We'll get you on a plane, you can come right home."

"I know, Dad," his son said, rolling his eyes.

"Don't do that. We care about you, Marcus. Always remember that. We're here." He gave his son a firm hug and a pat on his back as he gave one last wave, a nod to his sister and her signalling back 'Text me'.

"Call us when you get there!" Will shouted to his parting form, but he was long gone, lost in the bustle of people heading out into Gate #12, the world open and ready for one more rambler to walk across it.

~*~

"He'll be back before the summer is out, you know that." Will sighed and stared at the glassy tears that threatened to fall from Hannibal's stoic gaze, unseeing as they drove on the highway, away from the airport. "Are you sure it was a good idea letting Mona ride with Mischa and that...Guy? I guess it doesn't matter, he seemed pretty frightened of her, actually. Probably doesn't get that many fans so enamoured with his murderous past they even have copies of his arrest report printed out from 'The Smoking Gun'. Should we be worried about that, do you think?"

Hannibal sniffed and gave the radio in the Bentley his attention, turning it away from Will's grunge punk and rock station to one far more relaxing classical. He sighed and pouted slightly, his shining maroon eyes for the road through the open passenger window beside him. "What do you want for dinner?"

"I don't know. Something easy and light, it's too hot for anything heavy. You want to stop off at Hobb's Organics? Garrett's got Abigail working the weekends now so he can take off fishing with Francis. Mona is talking about getting a tattoo."

"Absolutely not."

"Good to know we're in agreement on that battle. I'm never going to get used to that, Francis and Garrett...." Will shook his head. He glanced over at a very quiet Hannibal and placed a hand on his shoulder. "You doing okay?"

Hannibal didn't answer him.

By the time they got off the highway it was late afternoon, the sun still frying them in its relentless brilliance. Will parked the Bentley in Hobb's parking lot and entered the crowded store with a sense of purpose. Hannibal hadn't specified what he wanted to make, but Will knew what he was after. A bag of chips and some ice cold beer to make the afternoon slip by into evening with ease.

Abigail was behind the massive meat counter, helping an elderly female customer and Will gave her a friendly wave, which she returned with a smile. As far as grocery stores went, Hobbs certainly kept an eclectic shop, dedicated to meat and yet full of every kitchen gadget and decorative imports he could find. His organic vegetables were a big hit with the university crowd in the area, as were his ready to eat salads which Abigail had painstakingly created, under the tutelage of Hannibal, of course. Will selected a couple of healthful offerings that used fried lotus root and a miso/sesame dressing of Hannibal's creation. He was placing his own stamp here as well, Will noticed. A tiny imposition of grains and green in an ironic corner of the former cannibals' lives.

His basket containing chips, beer and now a couple of salads, Will turned a corner to find Hannibal investigating a collection of delicate teacups, antique offerings that Garrett had decided on providing on a whim in hopes of upping sales of his organic tea line which used up excess herbs from his home garden. Hannibal picked up a particularly delicate looking sample, its surface gleaming in a shimmering opalescence that reflected the scant light in this section of the store. He caught Will's eye, and, with a devilish grin, he tossed the teacup to the floor, smashing it into a million pieces.

Will grinned back. And laughed. And Hannibal laughed with him.

What power did teacups have now? None.

Will twined his arm in Hannibal's, the taller man resting his temple against Will's head as they approached the counter and paid for their groceries, and the damaged teacup. Will's heart felt light as Abigail smiled and said she would stop by their house after work and Hannibal eagerly nodded at this, happy to go over a new salad recipe to add to her repertoire. He told her she was welcome at any time. Hannibal beamed at he possibility of playing in his kitchen.

As worlds spin and teacups break and reform and break again, there is a profound sense that what we become is the nature of what is around us. Tamed monsters are not so uncommon. Will twined his arm around Hannibal's slender waist as they headed for the Bentley, profane love traded for the steady, dull rote of domesticity, its lull sleepy and addictive. Tortured hearts pumping confused, furious poison had already crashed and burned upon some black, unwelcome shore. There is only sunlight here, and the waves are calm. The only ripple is a nag of memory that is drifting further and further from the shore. A discarded, bobbing flotsam. It is sucked into an undertow, never to be seen again.

~END~


End file.
